A Line Breached
by DaTumpelo
Summary: The Second World War has broken out, and France has to defend herself against the invading Germans. Lieutenant Jaune Arc is but a single officer in the French Army, thrown into the middle of a conflict he has little control over. A hero is something he has always wanted to be, but just how far can one go in defense of their homeland?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello and welcome! I'm DaTumpelo, and this is A Line Breached.**

 **What exactly is it? It is the brainchild of yours truly and a fellow RWBY fan and history buff ThiccBuddha. A while ago we were talking, like we usually do, and somehow the conversation turned into an argument about RWBY cast fighting in WW2. Weird, right? Well, that got me inspired, and I drafted the first chapter overnight to see what it would look like. I wasn't sure about continuing it any further, but ThiccBuddha convinced me to keep going. So I did.**

 **So, back to the question at hand. A Line Breached is essentially RWBY meets World War 2, but with some (very big) liberties taken. It's not going to be anywhere close to being historically accurate, and all of the characters and events are purely fictional. As such, don't use this as a reference for your history homework. This would've probably worked just as well, if not even better, as a Great War Remnant fic without any mentions of real history, but at this point I'm not willing to change it. So think of it as an alternate history WW2 with RWBY cast thrown in there.**

 **What else? As a WW2-inspired fic this is bound to get political at times, but I want to make it clear that I'm not picking sides here. This is not meant to be a pro-French/anti-German story, but it is mostly told from the perspective of French soldiers. Some of whom are not too friendly with the Germans. Still, the purpose of this fic is not to bash Germans, for the record.  
**

 **But that's enough about that, read and (hopefully) enjoy!**

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

" _War is nothing but organized murder._ " -Harry Patch

* * *

" _I would do fucking anything to get out of this,_ " colonel Weygand sighed as he skimmed through the report of one of his captains. He managed to read it halfway through before shaking his head and placing it on top of the ever-growing pile on the right side of his desk. An untouched cup of coffee stood next to the pile and with a grimace, he grabbed it and took a sip of the lukewarm drink. Closing his eyes and steeling his nerves, he placed the cup back where it had been a few seconds ago and reached for the next paper from the pile on his left that was somehow even taller than the one on his right.

" _Boches making another push for Eguisheim, twenty percent of defending troops combat ineffective, rations low and a storm incoming, requesting reinforcements, supplies and an evacuation for the wounded,_ " he read before placing it down and rubbing his eyes in exasperation. There was nothing he could give them. His regiment was already running on reserves, each company undermanned and undersupplied. Unlike those accursed Germans, who seemed to have an endless supply of men, tanks and artillery shells to throw against their dwindling defenses.

" _That damned relief better arrive soon,_ " he thought with a frown as he reached for the pile again, reading the first two lines of the report before putting it away. A casualty list and a request for replacement bodies, he didn't even need to see rest of it to know he wouldn't be able to help. He absent-mindedly reached for his coffee again, snapping out of his thoughts when he heard a crash and saw the cup lying broken on the floor, its contents spilled over the carpet. " _Why did it have to become like this?_ " he sighed.

* * *

" _I would do fucking anything to get out of this,_ " lieutenant Jaune Arc internally screamed as he sprinted through the barrage of gunfire. His once-blue uniform was dirty, charred and torn, a pale shadow of the imposing figure it had been less than a week ago. His revolver was nowhere to be found, and the only weapon on his person was Crocea Mors which hung uselessly in its sheath as bullets whizzed past him. Lungs burning, he dived behind a pile of logs serving as a makeshift barricade, allowing himself a few precious seconds to catch his breath.

The landscape surrounding Eguisheim looked nothing like the idyllic countryside it had once been. Trenches, barbed wire, and tank traps littered the fields, and the smooth, beautiful meadows had been buried under dirt, rubble and bodies after hours of repeated artillery bombardments. Falling to his hands and knees, Jaune threw away what little dignity he had left and vomited on the ground.

" _How did this happen? Where did I go wrong?_ " Jaune muttered. Eguisheim's defenses had been solid. His troops had been well-equipped and rested. The scouts had reported only minor enemy movements in the nearby woods. Everything should have been fine. They should have been able to hold the village.

When he heard the Germans were advancing towards their lines he had smiled. Their intel had put the boches just under platoon strength with only a few armored cars for support, nothing capable of assaulting a well-defended position like theirs. Not worried in the slightest, he had ordered his troops to man their positions.

At first, things had gone just as expected. The Germans had halted their advance immediately when they came under fire, and one of their armored cars was turned into a smoldering wreck by a well-placed shot from his command H35. With nowhere to fall back to and under heavy fire, the Germans had hugged what little cover they had and held their ground. The firefight had continued for almost an hour, the German numbers slowly but surely dropping as their rifles and machine guns took their toll.

Looking back at it now, Jaune knew he should have realized something was wrong with what was almost a suicidal attack by a scouting party. But seeing the Germans cowering under their fire had lit something inside of him. He had felt brave. He had felt important. He had felt like a _hero_.

The only warning he had received before everything went to shit was a faint whistle he had only heard in training videos. It took his brain a few seconds to recognize the sound through the euphoric bliss he was still feeling at the moment, and when his eyes finally widened in realization it was already too late. Just as his mouth opened to shout out a warning for his troops, the bombs hit their lines.

A loud crack snapped Jaune from his thoughts, and he hastily scrambled to his feet when more bullets impacted against the logs. Scanning his surroundings, he considered dashing to a nearby trench before shaking his head. " _I need to get to a radio, call for reinforcements, and reorganize our defenses,_ " he mused. Which was easier said than done, given the circumstances. His Hotchkiss had had a radio, and his platoon's signaller Aubin had carried one as well. Unfortunately, his command tank had been knocked out by the initial bombing, and he had seen Aubin fall with his own eyes when the Germans began their second assault.

" _I need to get back to the tank, with any luck the radio is still in working condition,_ " Jaune grimaced. He had been running away from the wreckage of his command tank for the past fifteen minutes, and between him and the possibly working radio was almost a kilometer of craters, barbed wire, and angry Germans. Had he still a few dozen men and a couple of tanks under his command he might have attempted to push against the advancing boches but alas, he didn't. Most of his troops had decided that holding was out of the question, and he couldn't really fault their logic on the matter. Seeing your commanding officer falling down from his command vehicle and then making a beeline away from the fighting wasn't exactly inspiring or encouraging.

While the sudden bombardment had been effective, the subsequent assault by the Germans had been downright devastating. The remaining German soldiers had broken cover and charged their lines, still staggered from the bombs, while a second group of boches had somehow managed to reach their left flank without anyone noticing. Spearheaded by no less than _five_ Panzers.

Jaune had no clear picture of what had happened after that. All he remembered was his mind screaming for him to survive, and after barely managing to jump out of his Hotchkiss before the bombs hit he had legged it without a second thought. The gunfire, cries of the wounded and roar of the Panzers' cannons had melted into one massive cacophony, which did nothing but encourage him to run faster. Fifteen minutes and eight hundred meters later, he had taken cover behind a hastily constructed log barricade and proceeded to empty his stomach next to a body of his countryman.

" _Okay, the situation isn't ideal, but it's still salvageable,_ " Jaune whispered to himself, preparing to run back to his command tank, angry Germans or no. " _Get to the Hotchkiss, get the radio working, call for support and…_ " his voice died out as he peeked past the logs.

There were dozens, no, _hundreds_ of Germans moving across the battlefield, with at least six Panzers paving the way. The flanking group hadn't been just a platoon with armored support, it was a whole damned company with extensive armored support.

His mouth running dry, Jaune could do nothing but stare in a mixture of shock and horror as a squad of Germans cleared out a trench still holding a few stubborn defenders. One of the Panzers, having ran out of French vehicles to crack open instead targeted the second floor of a two-story building, easily destroying the wooden wall and turning the surprised sniper hiding behind it into little less than paste. Bile rising to his throat again, Jaune stumbled back as a stray shell struck a tree near him, sending splinters flying in every direction.

" _What even… What is this…_ " a quiet whine of distress left his lips, his mind desperately trying to make sense of the situation. The Germans had somehow managed to move a whole fucking company to their flank, without him or anyone else noticing. And started their assault in perfect sync with the bombers. After that, it had been a simple matter of cleaning up any stragglers.

Jaune didn't know what evil spirit possessed him to stand up but he did, not caring about the carnage happening all around him. As he simply stared at the destruction, the top hatch from one of the Panzers opened, and a creature from his nightmares stood up from the vehicle.

She was wearing a German officer's uniform, complete with a rapier strapped to her hip. Her hair was as white as snow, tied to a long ponytail that would have been against at least four different French uniform regulations. She held a pair of binoculars in her hands, silently looking at the devastation surrounding her with cold indifference. Lowering the binoculars she motioned to a soldier near her, Jaune unable to make out the words. The soldier saluted and immediately barked out some orders of his own, the rest of the boches surrounding the tank quickly spreading out to carry out whatever commands they had received.

Seemingly satisfied, the white-haired horror lifted the binoculars up again, slowly moving her gaze over the remains of the French defense line. Paralyzed for some reason he couldn't explain, Jaune stood still as her eyes scanned the ruined landscape before finally settling on him.

For a moment there was a perfect silence between them, the sounds of their surroundings forgotten. Then, slowly, the white witch lowered her binoculars and nodded once.

Whatever devil had seized control of Jaune's limbs suddenly let go, and he staggered as the witch brought the binoculars to her eyes once more. Before she could turn her gaze away from him he snapped to attention and brought his right hand to his forehead in as crisp a salute as he could muster. After managing to hold his composure for three whole seconds he let his hand finally drop, before turning his back to the witch and taking off in a sprint.

" _Why? Why?! WHY?!_ " he weakly croaked as tears of anger and humiliation streamed down his face. " _Why did it have to become like this?!_ "


	2. Chapter 2

**Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

" _We should have known better after the first war._ " -Gerd von Rundstedt

* * *

Jaune Arc was afraid.

Jaune was no stranger to fear, and he'd be the first to admit it. When he held a gun for the first time in his life, he had been afraid he'd accidentally discharge it and hurt somebody. When his father told him he'd need a date for the officers' ballroom dance he had been afraid of approaching women until Gwen took pity on him and offered to come as his partner. The first time he commanded his platoon against the Germans he had been afraid of failing as an officer. All those times his fear had stemmed from the unknown and in the end, he had managed to get it under control when the situation cleared.

This time Jaune knew exactly what was going to happen, and that fact _terrified_ him.

"Lieutenant Brun, report," his executioner ordered, sitting behind a large ammo container serving as a makeshift table. A map was laid out on top of the container, its details too small for Jaune to make out, but very likely depicting the area surrounding their current camp.

Including Eguisheim.

"Of course captain Lacoste, sir," the man next to Jaune replied, taking a few steps forward so that he was standing in front of the map. Like Jaune he was wearing the French officer's uniform, but his was still in pristine condition. There were no stains or wrinkles that Jaune could detect, and he looked like he had spent the past few days parading instead of fighting. Even his pistol holster looked untouched.

" _Where were you when we were out there getting shot and bombed?_ " Jaune glared at the man's back. His hands slowly curled into fists, his knuckles turning white underneath the gloves.

"My orders were to provide aid for the 5th company, who had been locked into a stalemate with the German forces near Colmar," Brun said, pressing his index finger against the map. The way he spoke resembled a formal speech instead of an after action report, the way he pronounced the words elaborate and careful. "We reached them eight hours ahead of schedule, which allowed me to rendezvous with captain Vaillant before the planned offensive."

"Eight hours is quite the abbreviation, how did you manage that?" Lacoste asked, eyebrows raised.

"I felt the need to get to the 5th as soon as possible, so I took a shortcut through the woods instead of going around them," Brun answered, seemingly pleased with himself. "I also woke the troops up two hours earlier and had them eat on the road to save time."

" _Denied proper rest and sustenance, and forced through the forest with little to no roads? They would've been exhausted by the time they made it to their destination,_ " Jaune's mouth pressed into a thin line.

"I take it there were no complications along the way?" his executioner asked, focusing his attention to the map.

"No, sir," Brun's answer was immediate. "Captain Vaillant informed me of his situation, and of the German reinforcements expected to arrive by the end of the day," he lifted his finger from the map as he finished the sentence. "He was expecting at least four companies, with an unconfirmed amount of armored support."

"Which is the reason for your early return," Lacoste stated, not looking up from the map.

"Yes, sir," Brun replied, seemingly not at all unhappy about avoiding the fighting. "Captain Vaillant had received new orders to fall back to the Maginot Line, and holding their positions with the second platoon alone would've been impossible."

"Yes, it was the correct choice, given the circumstances," Lacoste hummed. "But captain Vaillant's new orders have got me somewhat concerned. Why abandon their positions to the enemy? The Germans have a strong grasp of the area now, and most of our outer defenses have fallen back without ever having come into contact with them."

"Surely the Maginot Line alone is enough to hold the boches at bay?" the man standing on Jaune's left said. Bouchard, he believed his name was. Lieutenant Bouchard, in command of the fourth platoon.

" _That strategy has been obsolete for over a decade now,_ " Jaune silently mused. " _The Line is supposed to be a deterrent and a speed bump, it won't hold if the Germans control the nearby areas._ "

"Even if the Line was impenetrable, giving the Germans more room to maneuver is a fool's plan," Lacoste raised his hand, silencing Bouchard. "Thank you, lieutenant Brun."

"Sir," Brun saluted before returning to his spot next to Jaune.

"Lieutenant Arc, report," Lacoste ordered, his sharp eyes meeting Jaune's.

"Yes, sir," Jaune replied, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Taking a few steps, he made his way to the map. "My orders were to verify the reports of German activity near Eguisheim, and to take appropriate countermeasures in case they proved true." When Lacoste didn't say anything, he continued. "We arrived at Eguisheim in time and set up a base of operations. I sent out patrols to scout out the surrounding woods, and they discovered a German force roughly thirty-five strong who had set up camp near the village."

"Scouts, I assume," Lacoste cut in.

"Yes, they had no heavy weapons or vehicles apart from three armored cars," Jaune replied, palms sweaty. "My signaller also managed to intercept a German radio transmission, forewarning us about reinforcements they'd be receiving." He took a deep breath before continuing. "I decided to set up defenses just outside of Eguisheim and wait for the Germans to attack us."

"Did the transmission say what amount of reinforcements they'd be receiving?" Lacoste asked, staring directly into his eyes.

Jaune could almost feel his superior's eyes drilling a hole into his head, and for a moment he considered lying. He could blame this whole fiasco on faulty intel, or maybe a mistake on his late signaller's part. After a few seconds of consideration, he felt like slapping himself.

" _I'm a terrible human being, thinking of putting the blame on the dead like that,_ " he thought before replying. "No, sir," he gulped.

"Hmh, continue," Lacoste lowered his gaze, clearly disapproving of his decision. Jaune couldn't say whether he was angry or disappointed.

"The Germans started their attack sooner than we anticipated, but our defenses were finished by then." Jaune could feel his heartbeat speeding up, unpleasant memories beginning to emerge. "Their scouts attacked us head-on, but couldn't get close enough to do anything. They lacked machine guns and their cars were no match for our tanks. We pinned them down with very few casualties."

"They attacked without waiting for their reinforcements?" Lacoste's head snapped back up.

" _Here it comes,_ " Jaune shuddered. "Not exactly. While the scouts attacked us from the front, another group of Germans made a move on our flank." He closed his eyes. "At least two full companies with armored support. They completely rolled over us."

Jaune had never understood what people meant when they talked about deafening silence. To him, silence was golden: no distractions, no worries, no danger. Silence was good. Silence was comforting.

Except that right now, the silence loose in the tent felt like it was choking him. Beads of cold sweat dripped down his temples, and he could feel the eyes of his fellow lieutenants staring at his back, judging. After what felt like hours, Lacoste's voice broke the stilled atmosphere of the tent.

"Arc, stay where you are. The rest of you, dismissed."

The rest of the officers quickly left the tent, leaving Jaune alone with the captain. " _This is it, then,_ " he silently lamented. " _I didn't even make it through the first month of the war. Wasn't even a bullet that did me in, but my own incompetence._ " His shoulders shook.

Jaune snapped out of his inner turmoil when he heard something being placed on the container in front of him. Lifting his eyes from the ground, a filled shot glass greeted him.

"Drink up, you look like you need it," Lacoste said, filling up another glass.

Too confused to reply, Jaune brought the glass to his lips. Downing the whole shot in one go, his face reddened as the liquor burned his throat.

"That's the usual first reaction," Lacoste chuckled before taking a sip from his own drink. "Armagnac has a certain… sophistication to it. Less smooth than its brethren, but with a richer taste. Much like a good woman, in a sense."

"Sorry sir, but a good drink might be wasted on me," Jaune managed to croak, his throat still feeling like it was on fire.

"A good drink is never wasted, unless you spill it." Lacoste's tone was almost paternal. "But now, I was hoping to continue where we left off."

Jaune's gloom returned in an instant. "I guess this'll be the end, then," he sighed.

"Hmm?" Lacoste took another sip of his drink before putting it down. "What makes you say that?"

"I made a mistake. I fucked up," Jaune replied, his voice hoarse. "Because of me, almost a hundred men and women are lying in shallow graves. If the boches even bothered burying them," he spat.

"I'm not going to insult you by denying that, but you do understand that complications happen on the field," Lacoste said, pouring himself another shot. "We give the men orders based on what information we've got. Sometimes things don't work out as expected. It doesn't make you any less capable as an officer."

"One hundred people are dead!" Jaune shouted. His whole body shook. "All because of me. Because of mistakes I made. How does that not that make me a terrible leader?!"

"Do not raise your voice at me, lieutenant Arc," Lacoste's voice filled the tent. However, all warmth had left it. "Yes, ninety-three soldiers under your command have died. Yes, maybe some of those deaths could've been avoided. But thinking of what could've been is not only useless, it's really fucking dangerous." Lacoste had stood up from his chair, towering over Jaune. "Believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about. Officer's job is to command the soldiers. Sometimes they have to give orders they know will result in their deaths. Soldiers die in a war. That's a reality you'll have to accept."

Jaune lowered his face, not meeting his captain's eyes.

"I have been a soldier for over two decades now," Lacoste continued. "During that time I have seen war in all its forms. I have seen what it does to people. Hell, I have experienced it firsthand." Lacoste rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a large scar on his bicep. "You see this ugly thing? Twenty-three years ago in Somme, a German mortar almost took my whole damn arm off. The rest of my squad wasn't so lucky, what was left of them wouldn't have filled up my canteen."

Jaune shuddered at the image.

"I was weak, wounded and furious. My good arm was as good as useless, and a nearby medic had to forcibly drag me back to the trenches so that I wouldn't charge the German lines alone." Lacoste let out a joyless chuckle. "I wanted to die at that moment. Everyone under my command was dead, just because some asshole had decided to fire a shell where we had been patrolling. I wanted to die, and to make the boches pay." He was standing less than a meter from Jaune as he spoke. "Only later did I realize what kind of a fool and coward I had been. Throwing my life away would've been the easy way out. Instead, I was alive and had to deal with the consequences."

Jaune remained silent, staring at the ground in front of him.

"Accepting that everyone else was dead was hard," Lacoste turned to face Jaune directly. "I spent the whole week lying on a stretcher, thinking if I could've done something differently. Even if I could've, what use was thinking about it now, when the damage was already done?" He grabbed Jaune's chin, lifting his head so that their eyes met. "Guilt and regret almost killed me back then. Had the medics not tied me up, I would've left the camp and ran directly into my death. Needless to say I, didn't lead any more troops during the war." His eyes hardened. "Don't make the same mistakes I did. Your soldiers are dead, nothing you do will change that. But giving up now is not the path to redemption you seem to think it is." His grip tightened. "Give up now, and you're spitting on the graves of every soldier who fought and died for you. Keep on fighting, and their sacrifice might still count for something."

"But what if I'm not fit to command?" Jaune croaked. "What if the same thing happens again?"

"Fuck's sake, Arc!" Lacoste growled. "That attitude is the only thing keeping you down." He let go of his chin. "Crying after the dead won't bring them back, it'll only make things worse for yourself. So earn those stripes, and take responsibility for your mistakes."

" _You're saying that like it's easy,_ " Jaune averted his eyes. "I'm not worthy of this uniform, I've already shown as much. Me leaving this position will allow someone more qualified to take it. It will…"

"It will make it someone else's problem," Lacoste cut in. "Make no mistake Arc, we're short on officers. You leaving will either force me to promote one of the NCO's to replace you, or to order one of the other lieutenants to command your troops as well as their own. Neither option is good for any of the parties involved."

" _No, it will be better. It will ensure I don't screw up again, it will… fuck,_ " Jaune covered his face with his hand. He felt like screaming. He wanted to keep arguing with the captain, but no words left his mouth.

"Don't resent me for what I'm about to do, Jaune," Lacoste using his first name snapped his mind back to focus. "We're in a shitty situation, and my options are limited. So here's what's going to happen." Lacoste took a deep breath before turning to face him once more. "You will remain in command of platoons three and seven. Reserves will be brought in to replace the casualties suffered in Eguisheim. After your troops are combat effective once more, you will remain on standby and serve as a rapid-response force in case of any unexpected developments."

"Why me? Why would you pick me over everybody else?" Jaune's question was little more than a whisper.

Lacoste sighed and for the first time, Jaune noticed the bags underneath his eyes. "Because I'm running out of options. Because we're fighting a war against an enemy far stronger than us." He rubbed his eyes, and Jaune imagined seeing a single tear running down his cheek. "Because I'm desperate and, like it or not, need you to carry your weight in this war." He looked Jaune straight in the eyes. "Because if you don't, me, you, and every other soldier here might as well be dead."


	3. Chapter 3

" _Victory usually goes to the army who has better trained officers and men._ " -Sun Tzu

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 3**

* * *

" _Some small skirmishes have broken out between the Army and invading German forces but so far, the Germans have failed to establish a foothold. Experts assure that the early retreats of the Army are simply part of a new strategy, and that…_ "

 **Kshhhhhhht.**

" _The French Army brought you victory twenty years ago, and it shall do so again! However, they now need your help. Buy National Defense Bonds to support the brave soldiers…_ "

 **Kshhhhhhht.**

" _The weather front is moving south, it's not bringing much rain with it so it should be fairly patchy and light…_ "

 **Kshhhhhhht.**

" _Here with us in the studio is the legendary Jérémie Traver, a veteran of the Great War and one of the deadliest snipers in the world. With over two hundred kills underneath his belt, he…_ "

 **Kshhhhhhht.**

" _...have started mobilizing their forces in response to the German aggression in Europe. The British Expeditionary Force is to be over 400,000 strong…_ "

 **Kshhhhhhht.**

Jaune rubbed his eyes as he turned off the radio. Having nothing to do during wartime should've been a good thing, but five days of overly patriotic radio shows were quick to change his mind on the matter.

" _Do the people even know what's actually going on in here?_ " he couldn't help but wonder. All of the shows had either failed to mention the losses suffered by the Army so far or had severely downplayed them. Newspapers were delivered to them only once a week and judging from the state of the radio, printed news wouldn't likely be any better.

" _I understand the need to keep up the morale, but this is getting ridiculous,_ " Jaune silently grumbled as he read through the front page of the last week's paper. " **French Army delivers a crippling blow against German invaders!"** covered the first half of the page, with a large photo of a disabled Panzer taking up the rest. The written part was a greatly exaggerated story of French soldiers ambushing a German supply convoy. What the reporter failed to mention was that the battle had been fought between two groups of less than ten soldiers each, and that the Panzer had simply broken down instead of having been destroyed by the Army. " _Even if the ends justify the means, this is just stupid,_ " he shook his head and dropped the offending paper.

It had been five days since his conversation with captain Lacoste. The promised reserves were set to arrive today, alongside some new vehicles to replace the lost ones. Most of his remaining soldiers were still recovering from Eguisheim, and he hadn't seen much point in running exercises with only a handful of people. Which had left both him and his troops with very little to pass the time.

" _Is this my punishment? Doomed to wait for reinforcements for the rest of eternity with only a trashy radio for company?_ " Jaune let out a joyless chuckle. " _I guess those stories about heroic last stands against overwhelming odds weren't true after all._ "

As embarrassing as it was to admit, one of Jaune's biggest motivators for joining the Army had been the numerous war stories he had read throughout his life. He had always pictured himself as the fearless hero who led the charge, inspired his fellow soldiers when they were at their breaking point, saved the beautiful woman taken captive by the enemy, married her and lived happily ever after.

" _Okay, maybe not that last part,_ " he grimaced.

Needless to say, his perception of fighting a war had changed drastically over the past month. Eguisheim had done a very good job of shattering his views of himself.

"Lieutenant Arc, captain Lacoste asked me to inform you that the reserve section has arrived," a voice snapped Jaune out of his thoughts. One of Lacoste's command staff, a staff sergeant judging from his insignia, stood in front of his tent with a clipboard in his hands.

"Thank you," Jaune replied, receiving a nod from the man before quickly making his way out of the tent. Accepting the clipboard as it was offered to him, he skimmed through the list of names and ranks as he followed his impromptu secretary.

Their camp was a mixture of tents, containers and parked vehicles, arranged in neat rows that left just enough space between them for them to pass through. Soldiers moved about on their daily duties, stopping and saluting when passing them before quickly returning to whatever they had been doing before.

After navigating through the maze of men, tents, and trucks for about a minute they made it to their destination. The smell of oil assaulted Jaune's nose as soon as he saw the building, and he fought the urge to grimace.

" _Not now, you need to look dignified in front of the troops._ " Jaune managed to keep his face neutral as they stopped in front of the building. More like a giant metal shack than an actual supply depot, the "rustbin" as the soldiers so eloquently called it, served both as the company's equipment storage and repair workshop for its technicians. Piles of containers of all sizes, spare treads and parts whose function he could only guess littered the ground, with even a few beat-up tanks waiting for repairs in front of the entrance.

However, what caught Jaune's attention was the column of soldiers standing next to the building. All of them wore the blue Army uniform and carried large backpacks, holding the easily distinguishable Adrian helmets in their hands. They looked to be out of breath because of all the marching they no doubt had had to do to reach the camp, but did their best to hide it in front of their superior officers. For all intents and purposes, they looked just like regular French Army soldiers. Except for one thing.

None of them were carrying any weapons.

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Jaune took another look at the clipboard. " _Reserve section 58, strength sixty-one soldiers, recruited mostly from eastern towns and villages, two months of training…_ " Jaune stared at the document in his hands, making sure he had read correctly. " _Two months?! That's not even enough for the basic training, nevermind squad tactics or weapons specialization._ " With so little training, calling them soldiers at all would've been a stretch. They were more akin to a militia, except that militias tended to actually carry weapons.

" _This has to be some sort of mistake, there's no way they would ship recruits to the front like this._ " It took Jaune all of his willpower not to break the clipboard in half. " _The war has not gone on long enough for the situation to be this desperate, is this because of Eguisheim? Some personal punishment for my failures?_ " As much as he hated the thought, it made a certain amount of sense. The command might be unwilling to send sixty soldiers to who they saw as an incompetent hotshot, so they decided to compromise.

And sent sixty fresh-faced recruits with little to no training, experience or even rifles instead.

The staff sergeant whose name Jaune still didn't know cleared his throat, the whole column snapping to attention immediately. "Welcome to your new home for the foreseeable future. This is lieutenant Arc, your commanding officer and direct superior," he nodded towards Jaune as he spoke. "He will see to your accommodations as well as your training. Your weapons will be issued tomorrow morning, so use what time you have today to get set up." He turned towards Jaune. "I'm sorry to say, but I have other duties to attend to. I'm leaving these soldiers to your care." The way he said "soldiers" made his opinion clear on their newest fighters, who were thankfully far enough away to not hear it. With that, he left the still flabbergasted Jaune alone with his underlings.

" _Why was I not informed of this?_ " Jaune did his best to not look as astonished as he felt. " _You'd think training sixty soldiers is important enough for the higher-ups to mention_." And there was the other problem. Platoons three and seven had lost ninety-three soldiers in Eguisheim, leaving them with less than twenty. Sixty-one recruits could be trained up to match the rest of the soldiers given enough time, but no amount of training would fill the remaining thirty-two slots.

" _Captain Lacoste has some explaining to do,_ " Jaune silently grumbled before turning his attention to his new section. "As you just heard, I am lieutenant Jaune Arc, in charge of the 3rd and 7th platoons. Before we depart, I have a few questions for you." Some of the recruits looked at each other nervously, before remembering that they were supposed to be standing at attention.

" _Lacking in discipline as well…_ " Jaune sighed. "It's nothing bad, I assure you," he continued, trying to calm them down. "I'm afraid there has been a mishap in communications, and I was not informed of your situation until now. I swear those guys in administration will mess everything up if you're not constantly holding their shoulder." Some of the recruits chuckled nervously at this, unsure if you were allowed to laugh at your superior's jokes. You were not, but Jaune decided to allow it in this case. " _It's not like I'm any less nervous than they are,_ " he mused, walking closer to the formation.

"What's your name, private?" Jaune asked, stopping in front of one of the soldiers.

"Nolan Porfirio, sir!" he replied instantly, standing straight like a lamppost. Jaune internally cursed his forgetfulness.

"At ease, everybody," he called out, the whole column assuming a more relaxed stance. "Good to meet you, private Porfirio," he turned his attention back to the man in front of him. "I was told that this section has had two months of military training. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir," Nolan replied. If he was embarrassed about his short training phase he didn't show it.

"I see," Jaune mumbled. "Have you received any weapons training?"

"A little, sir." This time Nolan seemed to squirm a bit. "We had a week-long weapons training period where they taught us how to use and maintain rifles, but we've only fired them once." Some of the other recruits nodded along, waiting nervously for his reaction.

"And you didn't even get to keep the rifles you used to train with," Jaune shook his head in disbelief. Normally soldiers would keep the weapons they used during their training, with the company's armory holding spare ones in case some were lost or damaged during battles. In this case, the higher-ups expected the company to both arm and train their replacement fighters for whatever reason. " _Whoever is behind this must really hate me,_ " he mused. "Well, have no fear. First thing tomorrow, you will be issued weapons. As the saying goes, a soldier is only as good as the rifle he's carrying," he chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood a bit.

"Yes, sir," Nolan replied, apparently uncertain how to properly respond. "Thank you, sir," he added after a few seconds. " _That's another thing I have to look into,_ " Jaune thought as he began to slowly circle the formation. The proper way of addressing your superiors might have seemed like a minor thing, but such things existed for a reason. Not that he cared much for them, but it was not his decision. If the protocol dictated that soldiers had to speak in a certain way, he had no choice but to go with it.

For the next forty minutes Jaune interviewed his new underlings, trying to get a sense of the extent of their training. They had received most of the basic training, all of it in fact, if you didn't count the weapons training part. Which was easily corrected, he supposed. Better for him to train them to fire their guns instead of running endless marching exercises. Jaune shuddered at the memories from his cadet days.

It was the more advanced training that he was worried about. Things such as squad composition, specialized weapons training and battlefield tactics. " _Since when did I become a drill instructor?_ " He could feel a migraine coming already.

"Thank you for your patience, everyone," he spoke to his troops once more. "Now with all that out of the way, let's get your tents set up. Excuse me, private," he called out to a soldier who had been leaning against one of the containers next to the depot, looking at the recruits. "If you have nothing to do, show these guys where to set up their tents. Next to platoon seven's spot."

"Yes, sir," the soldier stood up straight and saluted before motioning for the recruits to follow him. "You heard the LT, this way."

Having stood in a column the whole time, the recruits marched after their new guide, chatting amongst themselves. " _Time to pay captain Lacoste a visit, and to find out what the hell is going on in here,_ " Jaune took off his kepi and rubbed his eyes, feeling the headache. " _And it better be a damn good reason, none of that…_ "

"Excuse me, ummm, sir?" a timid voice interrupted him from his inner monologue. Bringing his hand down from his face, he saw one of the recruits standing in front of him, looking beyond nervous. She was a young woman, around twenty or so, with brown hair tied to a bun. Like the other recruits she was wearing the standard uniform, and carried her helmet in her left hand. But in her right hand, she was holding something else. An envelope, by the look of it.

"Yes, private…" Jaune racked his memory, trying to connect her face with a name. " _I don't think I've spoken to her yet,_ " he mused when nothing came up.

"Oh, Scarlatina, sir," she stammered. "Velvet Scarlatina."

"Well, good to meet you private Scarlatina," Jaune managed a small smile. "What do you need?"

"Umm, I... I was told to give you this after arriving here," she said, offering him the envelope. Confused, he accepted and held it in his hands for a moment before slicing it open with his bayonet.

Inside the envelope were two pieces of paper, which Jaune carefully fished out. The top one was a letter, signed by captain Elvire Pettigrew. Jaune quickly skimmed through its contents, before lifting his gaze back up to the private in front of him. "You have medical experience," he stated.

"Yes, sir," Velvet nodded. "I used to work in a hospital before the draft. Captain Pettigrew suggested I try to become a medic."

"Good, that's really good," Jaune muttered. Like officers, medics were always in short supply, and platoon three had been missing it's own even before Eguisheim. He looked at the other document in his hands, an employment certificate from the Hôtel-Dieu of Carpentras, before tucking both of them back inside the envelope. "Medics are always needed here, I'm sure your skills will be put to good use," he said, cringing when he realized the undertone of his words. "I'll notify captain Lacoste about this, I'm sure he'll have no complaints."

Velvet seemed to cheer up at his words. "Oh, thank you, sir! I'll do my best to meet your expectations!" Her eyes widened immediately after finishing her sentence, and she snapped to attention. "I-I'm sorry sir, that was improper of me. What I meant was, I will serve France to the best of my capabilities!"

Jaune had to bite his tongue not to burst out laughing. "I'm sure you will, private Scarlatina. Anyways, I'll take care of this, you should go set up your tent with the others before it gets dark."

"Yes, sir!" she saluted him before taking off after her comrades.

" _Oh, you are just precious,_ " Jaune chuckled to himself as he began to make his way to captain Lacoste's tent. " _But a new medic is a gift from God. Even if it's just sixty soldiers, a good medic might be worth twenty more._ "

He had not managed to take ten steps before a familiar voice interrupted him. "Umm, lieutenant Arc, sir?"

Jaune peeked over his shoulder, seeing Velvet awkwardly standing behind him, staring at her feet. "Private Scarlatina? What the matter?"

"You see, umm... " she stammered, with a mixture of uncertainty and embarrassment. "I don't see the rest of my section anywhere, and I don't know where they went." Her head drooped.

This time, Jaune couldn't help himself, and laughter erupted from his mouth. "No worries, private Scarlatina," he chuckled. "Follow me."

* * *

 **Kepis are military caps worn by WW2 French officers as a part of their uniform, in case you were wondering. And Hôtel-Dieus were originally hospitals for the poor run by the Catholic Church, nowadays most of them are either hospitals, museums or general purpose buildings. I just love throwing out random facts about history.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

_"Wars may be fought with weapons, but they are won by men. It is the spirit of men who follow and of the man who leads that gains the victory."_ -George S. Patton

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 4**

* * *

" _What I wouldn't give for a soft bed right now,_ " Jaune lamented as he stopped about twenty meters away from a small trench complex. The recruits of section 58 were already in place, standing at attention as some of the more senior members of platoons three and seven took positions inside the trench. Demonstrations from more experienced soldiers were a good way for the recruits to learn, and it helped build up trust between the seniors and their soon-to-be squadmates.

It also saved him the effort of doing the demonstrations himself.

The past two weeks had been draining not only for him, but for his new subordinates as well. Jaune had agreed with sergeant Vasilias, his second-in-command, that the recruits would need all the help they could get, which meant hours upon hours of rigorous training exercises for them. The command expected them to be a battle-ready unit already, and there was no telling when the order to move out came. As harsh as it was on the recruits, a punishing training regime was their best chance at survival. Sweat saves blood, after all.

Wake-up call at five thirty, breakfast at five forty, training from six to eleven. Half-hour lunch break, training from eleven thirty to four thirty, half hour dinner break. Weapon maintenance from five to six, spare time from six to eight. Night training from eight to ten thirty, seven hours of rest. Rinse and repeat for two weeks straight. He was sure captain Lacoste didn't approve, but he had yet to receive a cease and desist order. The captain understood what was at stake.

His conversation with the captain two weeks earlier hadn't given him nearly as many answers as he had hoped for. Lacoste had been just as confused as he, the only answer he had received from command being " _There is no mistake_ ". Which was odd at best and alarming at worst, but at least it cleared one question from Jaune's mind.

Reserve section 58 hadn't been sent to them by accident. Unarmed recruits was as good as they were going to get.

The most difficult phase had been the first few days when the recruits were still getting used to things. Needless to say, they had been exhausted after the first day, some of them even trying to skip the night training to get some additional sleep. As bad as he had felt for doing it, Jaune had nevertheless roused the truants from their slumbers and dragged them on their feet. In the end, he was doing all of them a favor.

Two in fact, seeing how he hadn't declared any of them AWOL.

The second day had gone about as well as the first, except that the recruits had been far more forthcoming with their complaints. He had had to instill some discipline in the whole section when four of them, privates Winchester, Thrush, Bronzewing and Lark, had tried to leave in the middle of an exercise. Jaune hated collective punishment with a passion, but he had little choice with time so badly against them. Lack of discipline and respect for the chain of command was a surefire way of getting not only yourself, but everyone around you killed. At least he had tried to be reasonable about it and had joined his subordinates in running laps on their (and his) spare time.

The third day had been the worst one, with most of the recruits having been both tired and cross. No collective punishment this time at least, even if he had had to make use of the superior officer card again and threaten the recruits with punishment from insubordination. At the end of the day he had felt weary and hopeless, with no idea what to do to fix the burned bridges between him and his troops.

"The second one from the front throws the grenade, the submachine gunner clears the corner as soon as they hear the explosion," Jaune explained as some of the seniors showcased their trench fighting skills. Most of those injured in Eguisheim had made a full recovery within a few days after section 58's arrival and thankfully didn't resent him for the giant clusterfuck the operation had turned into. To them, it probably looked like something unavoidable. They hadn't heard the intercepted radio message like he had.

Jaune closed his eyes and shook his head. No use thinking about it now. They were fine now, and more than happy to show the newcomers how to kick ass and take names. Some of them would probably be assigned as squad leaders when the time came to think about new squad compositions for the platoons. Some of the recruits showed promise too, private Winchester among them, oddly enough. The man was arrogant and far too quick to anger than what was ideal for a non-commissioned officer, but showed a good grasp of squad tactics and had excellent spacial awareness. Two bad traits could be overlooked in favor of two excellent ones.

"They're improving. Most of the newbies can actually hit one out of three shots now," an amused voice interrupted Jaune's inner musings.

"Seeing how little time they've had, it's not bad," Jaune said as sergeant Vasilias, or Neptune as he preferred to be called, appeared next to him.

Judging from his nickname alone, the man seemed to have an odd obsession with Roman mythology. Jaune was fairly certain he had Italian roots.

"Sure, and getting stabbed only once isn't bad if you're fighting three Germans on your own," his second-in-command dryly replied. "It's still going to kill you though. Sometimes "not bad" is not good enough."

"We're doing everything we can. Any more training and they'll collapse."

"I know that," Neptune sighed. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Don't you "sir" me, Vasilias," Jaune glared at the man, purposefully using his last name. "And since when did you care about proper conduct?"

"I don't know, the newbies must've been bad influence," Neptune said with a brittle smile.

"Speak freely. I could use a diversion from all of this," Jaune replied, distractedly looking at four recruits trying to mimic what their seniors had done a moment ago.

"These guys shouldn't be here. Most of them probably don't even want to be here. I've seen militias better trained than what they are." Neptune's eyes swept over the section. "Better motivated, too. Do you know what they're calling you when they think no one is listening?"

"I can imagine." Jaune didn't need to be reminded that he wasn't exactly popular with the recruits.

"A tyrant. They think you're a slave driver." The smile disappeared from Neptune's face. "Even if that's bullshit, the sentiment is what matters. Forcibly training an army is useless if it refuses to fight. And their willingness keeps on going down."

Jaune closed his eyes. He knew all of it, of course, but somehow hearing it from Neptune made the feeling even worse.

"I'm honestly surprised this has gone on for so long as it has," Neptune continued. "But it's only a matter of time before one of them has had enough. One deserter could cause a domino effect that destroys this whole section."

"What am I supposed to do?" Jaune tiredly asked. "If I lessen the amount of training they'll get killed the first time they see combat. If I don't they'll either desert or rebel before they have a chance to see combat. Either way, it'll end badly for both us and them."

" _They'll end up hating me either way,_ " he thought to add, but decided against it.

"C'mon Jaune, you're supposed to be the smarter one of us," Neptune's voice took a patronizing edge. "With being the son of a war hero and all. You shouldn't need me to smack you around when you're being an idiot."

"It's not like you could even if you tried," Jaune let out a quiet chuckle.

"That sounds like a challenge to me," Neptune grinned, before quickly returning to the matter at hand. "But seriously, you can't keep pushing them like this. Or you will not have a section to lead when the shit hits the fan."

"I will not have a section to lead either if it gets slaughtered on its first assignment," Jaune kicked the ground in frustration.

"You're saying that like it's guaranteed," Neptune shook his head. "Give them some credit, they're putting up with your regime and improving. Which is more than what I could say about myself if I had an asshole like you as an instructor."

"Two minutes ago you said they're not good enough," Jaune turned to face him with a frown, deciding to ignore his latter comment. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Don't get me wrong, they're not," Neptune nodded towards the training field, where private Bronzewing had just fallen to the trench he was supposed to jump over. "Most of them are still poor shots, and completely lack initiative. But we can't expect anything more in just two weeks." As he said that, private Bronzewing managed to climb out of the trench and kept going with the obstacle course. "You know this'll only get worse if you keep going like this. But you can't say for certain that all of us get massacred in some boche ambush if you give them eight hours of sleep a day."

Jaune said nothing.

"You still have time to fix this, it's not like they have the pitchforks ready," Neptune shot him a brief smile, starting to make his way back to the recruits. "Yet. Keep going like this and I might have to join them when they finally start pitching hay."

Jaune could only stare in silence as his second-in-command left him standing alone in the fields.

* * *

"You heard the news? Brits declared war on the boches. Already started shipping in troops and tanks," Russel said as he moved his remaining rook. A second after letting go of the piece he realized his mistake, and cursed loudly as Sky instantly took it with his queen.

"That's ancient history by now, everybody knows," Dove commented from the sidelines, reading a newspaper. With the mail arriving only once a week and access to radios limited, news tended to travel slowly in the camp. "The first ones are here already."

"The islanders finally decided to get their boots muddy? About damn time," Sky grumbled as Russel moved a pawn to defend his king.

"Better late than never," Russel said, eying the board. "I hear their navy is crazy strong. Twice as big as ours and with better ships. Good to have that on our side."

"Yeah, those ships are so much fucking help here in the woods," Sky pushed his rook forward. "Check, by the way."

"Oh, fuck you!"

Some of the other recruits laughed at Russel's outburst as he desperately looked for a way out. A small group had gathered around the container they were using as a table, chatting amongst themselves while watching the game.

"Sure, they got a lot of ships. But what good are those when their grunts can't fight for shit?" Sky took a gulp out of his canteen. "They're used to shooting tribals in some backward colonies no one gives a fuck about. They'll shit themselves as soon as a boche farts their way."

"They did pretty well the last time they fought the Germans," Dove cut in, still not lifting his eyes from the paper.

"Don't start with that shit about the Great War, that doesn't count," Sky lazily cracked his knuckles as Russel finally decided to sacrifice his knight to save his king. "It was nothing but taking potshots from mudholes. Any idiot could've done it."

"Whatever," Dove sighed, giving up on the argument.

"Still, better with than without, right?" Russel grimaced as his king was backed to a corner. "The more guys shooting at the boches, the merrier."

"Hey, I'm all for some Swiss-cheesed boches," Sky picked up his queen. "But if we have those Brits watching our backs and they choose to leg it, we're the ones getting fucked. They'll just merrily sail back to their island." He placed the piece right next to Russel's king. "Checkmate."

"I really hate you right now," Russel glared as Sky pocketed the two cigarettes next to the chessboard.

"Hey, not my fault you suck at everything you do," Sky said with a smirk. "Rematch?"

Russel threw his hands in the air in disgust before standing up and taking a few steps back from the container. When none of the other recruits took his place, Sky shrugged and began packing the chess set.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Having a good time?" All of the recruits surrounding the chess table -container snapped at attention at the sudden voice, turning to face their superior in almost perfect sync. "At ease," sergeant Vasilias lazily ordered as he walked to them.

"Sky's just swindling everyone of their smokes, the usual," Dove nonchalantly said, causing Sky to grin and Russel to shake his head.

"I should remind you that gambling is not allowed during wartime," Vasilias said in an overly strict voice. "But pass me one of those smokes, and the good captain will not hear about this."

Sky dug up one of the smokes he had acquired over the evening and tossed it to him, Vasilias easily catching it. "A pleasure doing business with you," he grinned, waggling his eyebrows as he lit the cigarette. Sky gave him a thumbs up, much to everyone's amusement.

"But you know, there was an actual reason I came here," their sergeant said after a few puffs of smoke. "Lieutenant Arc reminds you that the night training is mandatory, and that he will not tolerate truants any longer. If even one of you is missing without a valid reason, he'll have you dig trenches for the whole next week."

A collective groan escaped the group, their good mood evaporating instantly at the mention of their nightly exercises. "I know, I know," Vasilias sighed. "None of us like it, either. The lieutenant the least. But think of it this way. Once you learn the things, there'll be no more need for the exercises. So more sleep for all of us." He checked his watch. "But that's all from me. See you soon, gentlemen."

The recruits kept quiet for a while. Once they were sure the sergeant was far enough away, the muttering began.

"I'm getting tired of this shit…" Russel grumbled.

"I hear you. How sarge manages to tolerate the LT I'll never understand," Sky agreed, lighting a smoke. "The fucker's on a power trip. Doesn't even let us sleep at night."

"Well, you heard what he said. One of us decides to be lazy and we'll all be digging holes tomorrow," Dove said, folding the newspaper. One of the other recruits tapped his left shoulder and he passed the paper to him without a word.

"Shut up and let me whine in peace," Sky said after a deep inhalation.

"Ten minutes till eight, we better get going," Russel sighed, lifting his rifle from the ground. "I don't know about you guys, but a week of ditching doesn't sound all that fun to me."

Sky dropped his smoke on the ground and stomped on it. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

" _Thank God for the French Army._ " -Winston Churchill

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 5**

* * *

Colonel Weygand's office had seen better days.

More precisely it looked like it had been bombed, shelled and then bombed again, but he just couldn't bring himself to care about his surroundings when his secretary dropped another pile of paperwork on his already full desk. He was about to snap at her until he noticed the coffee pot she was carrying, instead just smiling tiredly as the woman filled up his cup.

As soon as he was alone again, Weygand grabbed the cup holding the liquid gold and greedily gulped it down. Feeling the invigorating drink flowing through his mind and body, he savored the moment for a few seconds before returning his attention to the pile of work in front of him.

"No rest for the wicked," he sighed as he reached for one of the piles. In the very least the situation wasn't as bad as it had been a month ago, so no neverending bombardment of supply and manpower requests he couldn't fill. Just as he was about to start reading the paper, his telephone rang.

Furrowing his brows, he put the report down and brought the offending machine to his ear. "Colonel Weygand speaking."

" _Good to hear from you again, Weygand,_ " a deep voice responded. " _Even if it should be you calling me, and not the other way around._ "

Weygand's face paled. "General Rainart! I was just about to deliver my report, but there have been so many complications that I…"

" _But your lack of punctuation was not the reason for my call,_ " Rainart cut him off. " _I'm sure you are aware of the current situation in the northern front._ "

Weygand gulped and nodded, before realizing that his superior couldn't see him through the telephone. "Yes, the Germans are attempting to push through the Ardennes. I thought the situation was under control?"

" _It was, but no longer,_ " came the general's reply. " _Our forward units have been pushed back and the Germans are capitalizing on that. They are preparing for an offensive to force us out of the region entirely._ "

"That would give them a base of operations inside France and a way to bring in supplies," Weygand stated, knuckles white.

" _Yes, which is why I'm talking to you right now,_ " Rainart said. " _I'm moving most of the eastern regiments, including yours, to reinforce the forces currently battling the Germans in the Ardennes. They cannot be allowed to establish a foothold._ "

Weygand rapidly nodded, his brain still trying to process all of the information. "Yes, yes, of course. How soon should we depart?"

" _Have half of your forces moving within this week,_ " Rainart grunted. " _The rest can finish any operations you have going on before following them. But no longer than a month._ "

"I'll see it done," Weygand promised, palms sweaty. One week wasn't a lot of time to mobilize such a large number of soldiers.

" _See that you do,_ " Rainart replied. " _We can't afford any more delays. You are best to remember that._ " With that he ended the call, Weygand still gripping the telephone like his life depended on it.

"Why did it have to become like this?" he asked out loud, his voice hoarse.

* * *

"Move it, move it!" Jaune bellowed as the recruits ran, crawled, jumped and climbed through the woods surrounding their camp. "Faster, faster! There's a German machine gunner firing at you! And an airstrike incoming!"

"You heard the man, pick up the pace!" Neptune stood next to Jaune, his voice even louder than his superior's.

Another three days had passed, all of them filled to the brim with running, shooting and swearing. Much to Jaune's surprise there hadn't been a single complaint from the recruits after his heart-to-heart with Neptune, and he believed he had his second-in-command to thank for that. He had come to realize that Neptune was a far better orator than he, and was likely the reason why the situation between him and the recruits hadn't boiled over yet.

" _Thank God that at least one of us knows what he's doing,_ " Jaune thought as three recruits jumped over a small stream in front of him. One of them stumbled at the landing, but the two others managed to grab his arms before he fell into the stream.

"Good catch you two, but the bombardment is still incoming! Keep running!" Neptune yelled, causing the three to take off once more.

"Good to see they're working well together," Jaune commented when the three disappeared from his sights.

"Twelve hours of back-breaking training each day with the same people tends to do that to you," Neptune nodded, pausing as another group of recruits passed them. "They're tired and frustrated, but they're also reliant on each other to make it through the training. Far easier to work together than try to struggle through all of this on your own."

"Glad to see at least some positive results," Jaune mused, remembering the first days of the training. Seeing the whole section barely standing after only a few days had made him seriously reconsider his qualifications as a drill instructor. "Soon it's time to announce the squad compositions," he added as an afterthought.

"What are your thoughts on the section?" Neptune asked, before yelling a few words of encouragement to a lone recruit who seemed to be struggling with the course.

"I'm planning on promoting some of our older members, assign them as squad leaders. They've got more experience than anybody in the section, and some of them already have leadership training."

Neptune nodded. "Sounds reasonable. All of the squad leaders are going to be seniors then?"

"Not quite," Jaune paused, thinking of the best way to break the news to his second-in-command. "I've put private Winchester's name forward for NCO training."

Neptune simply took a deep breath, before blowing the air slowly out of his nostrils. "Can't say that I agree with you on that one. The man's got an ego and possibly anger management issues."

" _That's putting it lightly,_ " Jaune thought. "He's also one of the best soldiers among the whole section, and is respected by the rest of them. He can lead by example."

"If you say so," Neptune gave up, lighting a smoke. Jaune was about to point out that smoking wasn't allowed except during off-duty hours, but decided to let it go.

" _Damn, I've become really lax with the regulations,_ " he thought as Neptune blew out a ring of smoke.

"Well, that's the leaders, what about the rest of the guys?" Neptune broke the silence between them after a few intakes. "We need machine gunners, snipers, signaller, probably some engineers too, did I forget anything?"

"A squad of scouts wouldn't hurt, and some of them should have training on anti-armor weapons too," Jaune mused. "But seeing how limited we are in manpower, we're going to have to cut some corners here. Too many tasks and not enough people."

"Any news on the new command vehicle?"

"None," Jaune replied, furrowing his brows. His old Hotchkiss was gone and buried, likely scrapped for parts by the Germans. He had put a requisition request forward for a new tank or even an armored car, but there had been no response from command.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they did the same thing they did with the section and just sent me a tractor or something," Jaune joylessly chuckled. "If they even bother sending anything at all."

"That'd be a sight to see," Neptune smirked. "Lieutenant Jaune Arc, the hero of France, scourge of the Germans, on top of his noble steed _Tracteur_."

"Say it like that, and it'll probably happen," Jaune covered his face with his hand. Riding to battle on top of a farming vehicle wasn't what he'd imagined himself doing as a kid.

"Hey, think of the symbolism here," Neptune kept going, a shit-eating grin in his face. "Tractors are slow and kind of goofy-looking, much like a certain lieutenant I know. More often than not, they're also full of shit."

"I really should have you court-martialed for insubordination," Jaune grumbled.

"But they're also big and strong, and will go over any obstacle given enough time," Neptune kept grinning. "Even if around would be the easier way."

"Dust off your dress blues, the hearing will be held next week," Jaune glared at his second-in-command.

"You wound me, who would keep this circus of a section running if you threw me in front of a firing squad?" Neptune dramatically held his heart.

"Getting back on track, I was planning on giving the entire section a quick course on both machine guns and reconnaissance, seeing how we are short on time," Jaune changed the subject. "Not ideal, but we can decide on dedicated scouts and machine gunners if we have enough time to train them."

"Sounds good, or as good as it can be," Neptune nodded. "Could be a lot worse at least. What of the rest of the roles?"

"Snipers and signallers will have to be specifically trained, we can't take the easy way out with them," Jaune continued with a frown. "We'll have to see about anti-armor weapons training, maybe the techs have some old cannon lying around we can use." He kept a short pause. "I think engineers are a lost cause, we aren't exactly qualified to train them and I highly doubt command would be willing to spare a squad for us."

"Seeing what they did with the newbies, I'll have to agree on that," Neptune remarked, dropping his smoke and grinding it to the ground. "Probably a waste of ink and effort to even send a request."

"Thank God for Scarlatina, I dread to imagine what getting ourselves a trained medic would take," Jaune sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"A real hidden gem, that one," Neptune agreed, before his voice took a mischievous edge. "Not too bad to look at, either. That uniform works wonders for the female body."

"You cut that line of thought, right this instant," Jaune said, with a louder and far more agitated voice than he had intended. "To fraternize with the soldiers is one thing, but drooling after them is where the line is drawn."

"Spoilsport," Neptune sulked. "Are you sure you should be enforcing that rule? It works both ways, you know."

"I don't know what you're implying, but I'd suggest you drop it if you value your position in this unit," Jaune half-jokingly replied, his voice returning to normal levels. "Those regulations exist for a reason."

"All I'm saying is, don't waste the opportunity if it presents itself." Neptune's grin spread again. "Scarlatina was already following you like a lost puppy the day they arrived here. Who's to say she doesn't…"

"Excuse me, sir," a feminine voice interrupted Neptune's suggestion that would've probably broken at least twelve different regulations. Both of them spun to face the one addressing them, Neptune snapping his mouth shut.

"Private Scarlatina," Jaune acknowledged, the object of their short and questionable conversation standing at attention in front of them. "At ease," he added when she didn't drop the stance.

"I have finished training with captain Fosse, and was told to report to you," Velvet said as she switched her stance. Captain Fosse was the senior medical officer of the company, and had agreed to handle most of Velvet's training. Which was surprising, considering all the other duties he had to attend to.

"Very good," Jaune nodded. "We are just about done here, you can wait here while the rest of the guys finish." Just as he finished his sentence privates Winchester, Thrush, Bronzewing, and Lark jogged past them, Winchester half-dragging Lark behind him.

"What's that slouching supposed to be? The Germans aren't going to take pity on you if you drag your feet on the battlefield. Move it!" Neptune barked. The four privates picked up their pace, an anguished grimace splitting Lark's face.

"So, how goes the training?" Jaune broke the silence between him and Velvet as Neptune kept "motivating" some of the slower members of the section.

"Umm, it's going well, I suppose," Velvet quickly replied, apparently surprised by the sudden question. "Captain Fosse is very professional. I'm surprised someone of his rank is willing to train a new recruit like me."

"Good to hear. Captain Fosse knows his stuff, we're lucky to have someone like him training you," Jaune replied. To be honest he didn't know much about the man, other than his rank and name. He didn't think he had even exchanged words with him before he had asked him about Velvet. He had been taken aback by the offer, but was more than happy to have their medical expert take care of her training.

With that silence fell between them once again, only disturbed by Neptune's occasional yells. Jaune was about to open his mouth again when their platoon's radio, set up on top of an old tree stump behind them, began to emit an ear-splitting sound that caused him to bite his tongue.

"Moment please," he managed to mumble through gritted teeth as pain emanated from inside his mouth. " _Whoever designed these things should've been shot years ago, that infernal sound is basically an auditory weapon._ " He kneeled in front of the radio.

"Lieutenant Arc," he answered, not even trying to hide his annoyance. "This better be important, for I…" His brows furrowed. "Yes, I heard about that, what does it…" His eyes widened, the fact that he had been cut off completely forgotten. "I… Yes, sir. What do we…" He was interrupted again, his eyes growing wider. "I understand, sir. Yes, I'll inform them right away." He turned away from the box in front of him, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Sergeant Vasilias," he called with as much strength as he could muster, his second-in-command confusedly turning to face him at the use of his surname. "Gather everyone here. I have an announcement to make."

* * *

"Fucking… asshole… officers…" Sky wheezed as their group of four reached the finish line. Two seconds after crossing the line, he fell on his knees and unceremoniously emptied his canteen on his head.

"Quit your bitching, drama queen," Cardin grunted. Unlike the rest of the group, he was still standing straight and was breathing evenly. In fact, he didn't look to be out of breath at all. "This is nothing compared to what actual combat is like."

"I feel like I've smoked fifty a day, and then some…" Sky continued, his words barely understandable from underneath all the sharp intakes of air.

"With the amount you're pinching from the rest of us, I wouldn't be surprised if you had," Dove panted. He was leaning against a tree, taking deep breaths. "All that smoking had to come back to you eventually."

Sky simply lifted a finger in response, too focused on getting his lungs under control to say anything.

"Still, we're doing a lot better than we did at the start," Russel said. "A jog like this would've killed someone on the first day."

"I don't know, Sky looks ready to be added to the casualty list," Dove dryly commented, kicking their fourth member who was still panting on the ground.

"Speaking of casualties, guess who skipped out on training again?" Cardin bitterly asked, taking a sip from his canteen.

"The rabbit?" Russel suggested, earning a nod from their unofficial leader. "Knew it. She's never in the tough ones, only appears after the rest of us have finished sweating."

"Maybe because she's a medic?" Dove cut in. "Different training branches and all that?"

"Oh c'mon, we all know why the LT is giving her special treatment," Cardin uttered, earning short chuckles from the rest of the group. "The only training sessions she's receiving are one-on-one specials with the LT after the quiet hours."

"Great, now I'm hungry for some rabbit meat," Sky remarked, having finally found his footing.

"Careful, rabbit starvation is a real thing," Dove added, causing the whole group to tiredly laugh.

"Meh, who even cares about the medic? It's not like they're doing any of the fighting," Russel said after the laughter died down. "Just scrub some dirt on your scrapes and bam, all better."

"Damn right," Cardin grunted. "Just shoot the boches before they shoot you and there's no problem."

"That's the right idea, keep that up and you'll all be corporals in no time," sergeant Vasilias commented. The four of them turned to face their superior, who had somehow managed to sneak up on them. "But now's not the time to talk about field promotions. Follow me, the lieutenant has news for you."

Unsure what to make of the situation, the four of them walked after the sergeant, leering at each other.

"I told you to keep it down when you're talking shit about the LT, now we're in latrine duty for the rest of the month," Dove angrily whispered. Cardin glared at him, but didn't say anything with Vasilias so close.

Sergeant Vasilias led them to a small clearing, where most of the other recruits were already waiting. He simply pointed towards the mob and nodded at them, before making his way to the middle of the clearing.

"Attention!" Vasilias barked, causing all of the recruits, Cardin, Russel, Dove and Sky included, to instantly snap at attention. "At ease," he said after a few seconds.

"That you, sergeant Vasilias," lieutenant Arc appeared from the back of the mob of recruits, walking towards his second-in-command. "I'm sorry this is so sudden, but I only received these news twenty minutes ago myself." He paused for a moment. "Captain Lacoste contacted me, and informed me of some new developments that have happened in the war."

"Is he going somewhere with this?" Russel whispered, going completely ignored by the rest of the group.

"The Germans have been pushing through Ardennes ever since the start of the war, without much success," lieutenant Arc continued. "Until now. Twenty-four hours ago, most of our forward units were beaten back and the Germans are using their newfound momentum to keep their offensive going."

"Not good," Dove grimaced.

"Which is where we come in," lieutenant Arc paused for a moment. "Our company will be repositioned to reinforce our forces currently in the Ardennes."

"Don't tell me…" Sky gasped, voice barely above a whisper. Cardin stayed silent, intently staring at their commander.

"So pack your things and be prepared to move first thing tomorrow morning," lieutenant Arc said with a strained voice. "The frontline calls."


	6. Chapter 6

" _The two enemies of human happiness are pain and boredom._ " -Arthur Schopenhauer

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 6**

* * *

Eguisheim was a beautiful town.

There was something eye-catching in the way the gable-roofed houses stood next to each other, the way the narrow cobblestone roads zigzagged between the buildings, the way fountains and flower arrangements decorated every street and plaza.

Had she not been fighting a war against France, Weiss would've seriously considered settling down in the town. The ruined countryside surrounding it was an eyesore for sure, but she was certain the scenery could be fixed after the war. It was fortunate the town itself had been relatively unharmed during their attack, even if the civilians had been evacuated beforehand.

The town's serene atmosphere was the only thing keeping her sane at the moment, and destroying it would've been a shame in more ways than one.

Weiss considered herself to be a patient woman. Patience was a virtue she had adhered to her whole life, never once losing her temper. Schnee didn't lose their temper. Schnee was patient and calm.

Schnee was in control.

Except that currently, Weiss felt like the god of time himself was plotting against her. She was fairly certain that if time could pass any slower, it would start going backwards. As beautiful as Eguisheim was, there was very little to do to pass the time with no orders to follow or enemies to fight.

" _All the time in the world, but nothing meaningful to spend it on,_ " Weiss sighed as she stepped inside a deserted café. The room and furniture were in perfect condition if you overlooked the thin layer of dust on top of everything, and she was pleasantly surprised to find the coffee maker still in working condition. Regulations be damned, an officer deserved better coffee than that bitter tar they were given each morning. Humming to herself (after checking no one was around, of course), she began to prepare the drink.

"Honestly, this isn't how I imagined my first visit to a French coffee shop to be like," she let out a short laugh. To be perfectly honest she hadn't given visiting France much thought at all, and knowing she was not only fighting in but actively invading the country felt surreal. She knew it wasn't appropriate for an officer to harbor such feelings, but it was one of the few luxuries she still allowed herself to enjoy. Inappropriate or not, there were only so many things one could give up for the Fatherland.

Had she been told she'd be in the military two years ago, she would've likely laughed before ordering the guards to escort the heckler out of her sight. A career in the military, even as an officer, was something that her father frowned upon and considered to be beneath the family name. Soldiers were disposable pawns after all, officers included, the real power being held by the armament manufacturers.

Such as the Schnee family.

Weiss angrily shook her head as she turned on the coffee maker. It was incredible how much hatred a soldier could feel towards someone who provided their arms and ammunition, but it wasn't like her father actually cared about the war effort. To him, a war between nations was just another opportunity to make a profit. Things such as ethics and empathy didn't boost the company's revenue, and as such were irrelevant.

"Oh Winter, how I wish you were here," she sighed as the coffee maker began its work. She hadn't seen her sister in over a year and with the war going on, the situation was unlikely to change.

Winter had always been the tenacious one of the three Schnee siblings, caring little about the family name or of their father's expectations. On her eighteenth birthday she had announced her departure to the Army, leaving behind a surprised little sister and an absolutely furious father. Weiss had been declared the heir later in the same day.

Back then Weiss couldn't understand her sister's decision. Throwing away all the education, wealth and power available to one of the most influential families in Germany had seemed nothing short of ludicrous, and Winter hadn't stayed to explain herself. At first, she believed her sister had gone insane.

It was when the realities of being the heiress had begun to dawn in on her when she had finally understood. The constant studying, balls and, good God, the suitors. The worst of the buffoons didn't even attempt to hide their intentions, thinking a glass of wine and ten-minute conversation to be enough to bed her.

They had all recovered in time. Mostly.

"Captain Schnee." It took Weiss less than a second to spin around and position herself directly between the coffee maker and the person addressing her. Her signaller stood at the door of the café, his radio strapped on his back. "Command radioed in, asking for you."

"Tell them I'll be reporting the same time as usual, there's no need for them to contact me," Weiss snapped at the man, suddenly feeling sour. It was not the messenger's fault that the news were bad, but she was in no mood to talk with the colonel right now.

"I did, ma'am. They insisted."

"Then keep telling them that. Colonel Nussbaum can wait for my report until tomorrow," Weiss replied. She had disliked Nussbaum from the moment she met him, and was fairly certain the man had something against her. It was because of his orders she was still in Eguisheim, for one. Something about securing the area, even though there were no civilians in the town with the last defenders having left weeks ago.

"Ma'am, it's not colonel Nussbaum," her signaller said, surprisingly calm at the face of an irate superior. "It's general Ironwood."

A million different feelings passed through Weiss' mind in the three seconds it took her to process what the man in front of her had just said. Astonishment, excitement, and uncertainty, to name a few. General Ironwood wasn't her direct superior, or even close to her in the command hierarchy, for that matter. He was, however, a family friend, and one of her biggest inspirers when it came to her decision to follow her sister into the military.

And a better father than Jacques had ever been.

"I… see," she responded, before managing to assume a more appropriate stance. "Thank you for informing me, you can leave the radio here and retrieve it when the general is finished talking."

"Ma'am," the man saluted and took off the boxy device, putting it down on one of the tables. With that he left the café, leaving Weiss alone with the radio. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and walked to the machine.

"Captain Schnee speaking," she spoke as she picked up the handset. She managed to keep her voice steady, despite the whirlwind of emotions still raging inside of her.

" _You're a difficult woman to contact, captain Schnee,_ " the voice greeting her from the radio managed to sound both strict and amused at the same time, even through the machine's distortion.

"My apologies general, it's been… Well, it's been busy," Weiss replied. Her voice was calm, even if was feeling anything but.

" _Please, don't even start with the formalities Weiss._ " She could almost see Ironwood's smile through the radio. " _You know I hate them just as much as you do. And I was under the impression you have been sitting on standby with nothing to do for quite some time now._ "

Weiss awkwardly coughed. "Guilty as charged. We've yet to receive orders to leave the town. At this point we're just taking potshots at rats."

" _Well, I'm glad to hear our supply lines are safe under your watch,_ " Ironwood laughed.

"Yes, no thieving vermin shall escape retribution so long as I'm in command," Weiss found herself laughing with the general. She couldn't even remember when was the last time she had genuinely laughed. Two weeks ago? Three weeks? A month? Far too long ago, seeing how good it felt right now. "Thank you, I needed that," she said after their laughter died down.

" _You're very welcome,_ " Ironwood chuckled. " _But quite frankly, I should be the one thanking you. I haven't had much time to just sit down and talk for the past few weeks._ "

"I understand," Weiss nodded. "How goes the war? I haven't had many opportunities to check in with the command, and they aren't very forthcoming to begin with." And that was putting it lightly. She hadn't received any updates after taking Eguisheim, not even after arguing with colonel Nussbaum's signaller for almost an hour.

" _The Ardennes offensive continues, we're gaining ground daily,_ " Ironwood replied, his relaxed tone changing to a lecturing one. " _Should it continue like this, the region will be under our control by the end of the month. Other than that, there have been skirmishes near the Maginot Line and some plans to mount an offensive from the Italian border, but nothing major._ "

"Surrounding and isolating the Line will be easy after the Ardennes route is secured," Weiss mused, humming to herself. It could be the deciding factor of the whole war.

" _Yes, and it will give us a direct path to their capital,_ " Ironwood added. " _The situation is in our favor, even with the Brits here._ "

"Seems like I was worried for nothing, then," Weiss replied, suddenly feeling a lot lighter. "Although it annoys me to think I've done nothing but taken a small village with a token garrison."

" _You shouldn't think like that, what we're doing here is not as glamorous as the press tries to portray it as,_ " Ironwood's voice sounded melancholic for a moment. " _Just between you and me, there is very little honor left on a modern battlefield. There's no reason to feel left out when your hands are still relatively clean._ "

"General Ironwood?" Weiss unsurely asked.

" _Don't mind me, just age catching up to this old wardog,_ " Ironwood chuckled. " _But enough about that. I feel like we've talked enough about work._ " His voice suddenly took the paternal tone Weiss had been used to hearing years ago whenever he visited them. " _Would you like to meet sometime after this whole mess is over? I could invite your sister as well._ "

If Weiss had been surprised a moment ago, now she was completely flabbergasted. "Meet you? I mean... Yes... yes, of course. I'd love to," she stammered before she got herself back under control.

" _Wonderful,_ " Ironwood replied, his smile obvious from his voice. " _Now that I think about it, I did promise to take you to Paris one day, didn't I? Seeing the jewel of France with your own eyes is something truly spectacular, I've heard."_

"Be careful with that mouth of yours, general," Weiss said, a small smile on her lips. "Any more, and I might end up falling for you."

" _I don't think your father would approve of that,_ " Ironwood laughed. " _And I'm sure you have enough men wooing you without adding an old fossil like myself to that line_." He cleared his throat. " _But my offer still stands. How does dinner in Paris sound like once this is all over?_ "

Weiss' smile split her face. "I'd love that."

" _I'll look forward to it, then,_ " Ironwood said before sighing. " _Sorry to say, but duty calls. I'll talk to you later._ "

"Later then," Weiss replied, Ironwood closing the line a few seconds later. Taking a look at her surroundings she began to hum to herself, all feelings of boredom and frustration forgotten. Not even the smell of burned coffee emanating from behind her could ruin her newfound good mood.

"Paris. Paris sounds good," she said out loud. "Paris sounds great."


	7. Chapter 7

_"Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm."_ -Winston Churchill

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 7**

* * *

"You know, I just saw some trucks driving past us. Seemed to be packed full of other unfortunate souls being shipped to the Ardennes."

"Shut up."

"I also heard that the Army has commandeered over ten thousand civilian cars to haul troops and supplies. Everybody doing their part, am I right?"

"Shut up."

"I think I also read from somewhere that one general hired all cab drivers in Paris to transport soldiers to the front during the Great War. And their meters were running the entire time."

"Shut the hell up, Lark," Cardin growled through gritted teeth.

"All I'm saying is, we got all these fancy vehicles at our disposal to make sure things get delivered in time," Sky continued. "So I'm just asking, why the hell ARE WE WALKING WHEN EVERYBODY ELSE IS SITTING NICE AND COMFY IN A TRUCK?!"

"Keep it down back there," lieutenant Arc snapped from the side of the column.

"Fucking prick," Sky grumbled in response.

What remained of platoons three and seven, as well as section 58, had been marching ever since the train had dropped them off on Charleville-Mézières. There had been trucks, half-tracks and even bicycles waiting for them near the train station, which had been quickly loaded full of soldiers and sent towards the combat zone. Everything had gone just as it should've, except for one thing.

The transports had run out before they had had a chance to board them.

Lieutenant Arc had looked ready to explode, but there was little left to be done after the last truck had throttled off into the distance. So marching it had been.

"I'm starting to think one of the higher-ups really hates us," Dove muttered as he fixed his hold on his rifle. "Sent to the camp too early, with no guns, and now this."

"I hear you," Russel agreed, trying to squeeze the last drops off of his canteen. "This whole thing has been a pain in the ass ever since we were shipped here. Dammit, I shouldn't have stopped going to church."

"Probably not that high up," Dove dryly replied.

"Heavenly punishment or not, a day of marching is still a bitch," Sky grumbled. "And we'll probably get sent to the fire immediately after we arrive. Not like the cannon fodder needs rest, right?"

"Don't be like that, we're pretty tough," Russel said as he put his canteen away. "I bet ten francs that none of the other sections train half as hard as we do. The boches got nothing on us."

"Agreed," Cardin nodded. "Doesn't matter if the boche is the fucking Kaiser Wilhelm himself, they all die the same when you shoot them."

The recruits close to the group hummed their agreements, continuing their chatter as they kept on marching. Being a pedestrian was annoying to say the least, but it also meant the trips took longer. Which in turn meant there was more time for useless but nonetheless entertaining banter with the other section members.

Oddly enough, the spirits of section 58 were relatively high considering what they were preparing for.

"All right people, listen up," lieutenant Arc raised his voice so that the whole column could hear him. "We're getting close to our destination. Once we get there, we will form you into squads and try to arrange some additional weapons to be transferred to us," he kept a short pause before continuing. "What we do after depends on the situation as well as our orders. If possible, you'll get some time to get used to your squads as well as some additional training for your new assignments. That's all."

"If possible," Sky meaningfully repeated, stretching both words.

"I think that much was obvious at this point," Dove commented.

"C'mon guys, it can't be that bad," Russel said, ever the optimist. "What's the point of sending us out in the first place if they're not willing to equip us properly? They can't just dump us some junk from the past decade and expect us to fight with it."

* * *

"You're fucking kidding me," Cardin groaned, covering his face with his hand.

"Can't say I'm surprised," Dove sighed, obviously disheartened despite his indifferent tone.

"You just had to jinx it, didn't you?" Sky glared at Russel.

"In my defense, I did say they wouldn't give us stuff from the past decade," Russel weakly replied, staring at the sight in front of them.

"Oh sure, they didn't give us outdated junk from the twenties," Sky said in a sickeningly sweet tone. "Instead, they gave us completely obsolete crap from the fucking Great War!"

The small pile of weapons in front of them was, to put it bluntly, depressing to look at. Most of the pile was made up of old rifles and submachine guns, some of which looked ready to fall apart on touch. Two rusted Maxim guns stood at the back of the pile, neither of which would work without extensive maintenance. And finally, lying proudly at the side of its brethren, was the Mauser anti-tank rifle.

"This is just perfect. Simply fan-FUCKING-tastic," Sky growled as he tested the weight of the massive rifle. "You know this thing is a German model, right? Probably spoils of war from Somme or other such shit. I'm surprised they even kept it around for this long."

"Still better than nothing, right?" Russel tried. "I'd rather have that thing against a tank than my usual gun."

"The difference is actually smaller than you'd think," Dove cut in, staring at the weapon.

"What do you mean?" Russel asked, lifting his eyes.

"What he means is that the boches designed this thing to take out tanks over two decades ago," Cardin growled, silencing the other three. "You know? Back when _ten_ _millimeters_ of armor was considered adequate protection for a vehicle? This so-called anti-tank rifle would be hard pressed to penetrate the armor of a modern light tank, nevermind taking it out." He spat on the ground. "This is not an anti-armor weapon, it's a glorified bolt-action rifle. The best we can do with it is to try sniping at German anti-tank guns. The kind that hit harder than wet noodles."

A silence fell on their group, a few minutes passing with them just staring at the antiquated weapons lying on the ground.

"Fucking unbelievable…" Cardin shook his head with a grimace, picking up one of the submachine guns. "Let's grab this stuff and drag it back to the camp, and pray to God the rest of the guys are having better luck than we."

* * *

"You're fucking kidding me," Jaune groaned, covering his face with his hand.

"Well, look on the bright side," Neptune said, an unreadable expression in his face. "At least it's not a tractor."

"I'm not sure if this thing is much better," Jaune forced himself to open his eyes, peeking at the sight in front of them through his fingers. It was a tank, no doubt about it, but judging from its beaten, rusted and dirtied appearance it hadn't seen action for a while.

As in, not seen action for two decades or so.

"I'm not going to just stand on the sidelines and listen you badmouth this beauty," Neptune patted the oversized tin can, causing some lichen to fall off of it. "It's a living and breathing piece of our country's military history. This thing is probably as old as you are."

"You're not making me feel any better," Jaune covered his eyes once more.

"You see all these dents? They're battle scars," Neptune continued, drawing his finger across the hull of the "vehicle". "They're reminders of times when the world tried to break her down, but failed. They're proof she managed to beat whatever tried to beat her!"

"Neptune, that hole is big enough to fit a man through," Jaune shot back, his voice flat.

True enough, the front of the rustbucket was completely cracked open, its crew compartment fully visible through the rather sizable hole. Made only more obvious by the relatively small size of the vehicle.

"Alright, so she has some scrapes here and there, no big deal," Neptune declared with almost religious zeal. "A little bit of patching up and she's good to go. Ready to serve France once more!"

"I'm not sure we agree on what counts as a little bit of patching up," Jaune mumbled. In all likelihood, it would take well over two weeks for the techs to get the thing moving again, and another one to fix the broken hull. Assuming they could find the necessary parts in the first place. "Those materials would probably be better spent elsewhere."

"Stop with the slander, the FT-17 is a great model!" Neptune half-yelled, staring at it like it was his firstborn child. "Easily the best tank of the Great War, mowed down Germans like nobody's business. Also influenced the later designs, they're basically the mothers of all modern tanks." He lovingly petted the dirty metal. "True badass mothers, ready to join their sons and daughters on the battlefield once more."

"More like a crippled and demented old man, barely capable of moving on their own any longer," Jaune cut in on his rant. "Anyway, we need to get this husk to the camp, go see if there's a spare tractor or truck in here somewhere." He sighed deeply as he rubbed his eyes. "Let's just hope that the rest of the guys are having better luck than we."

* * *

"This is an impressive facility you have here," Velvet said as she followed after the medic guiding her.

"Thank you," the woman replied, smiling slightly. "We were lucky there was an old hospital so close to the front. Things would've been far more difficult for us if we had to make do with tents."

"Doesn't seem like there's a shortage of supplies, either," Velvet added as they walked past a man pushing a cart full of medical equipment.

"No, we have all that we need here, some of it in excess, even," her guide nodded. "The guys in the logistics did their jobs correctly for once."

Velvet giggled at the jab. "Hopefully things are working out this well for everybody else."

* * *

"This isn't working out at all!"

"Those guys in the logistics have completely fucked us over!"

"Shut up Lark, we all know," Cardin grunted before smacking Sky in the head as he kept on whining. All of their "new" gear was on full display before them, in all of its rusted glory.

" _For once, I'm inclined to agree with private Lark,_ " Jaune grumbled as he did an inventory on the items. " _This stuff hardly qualifies as a new command vehicle and squad support weapons. We're lucky if we get half of these into working condition before we have to use them._ "

Surprisingly enough, the higher-ups didn't seem to be responsible for their current predicament. The captain in charge for their base's logistics had nearly blown a gasket when Jaune had told him, and had sworn to make life miserable for whoever had been responsible for the deliveries. Which was something he could wholeheartedly agree with, but that still didn't solve their problem.

As is was, section 58 was still armed with their rifles, and nothing else.

"I know you're all tired and frustrated, but there's one more thing to handle today," he announced as he finished counting the ammunition boxes delivered to them. No problem with them at least. "We'll now split you into squads, which you will remain in for the foreseeable future."

Some of the recruits nervously eyed each other.

"Each squad will consist of four fireteams of two, for a total of ten squads of eight. This will give platoons three and seven both five squads each," he began explaining. "I will be in direct command of platoon three whilst sergeant Vasilias will take charge of platoon seven. Time's not on our side here, so let's get started." He lowered his eyes from the section and began to read out loud from the list on his clipboard. "Sergeant Sartre, you are assigned as the leader of squad one."

"Sir," one of the seniors saluted, taking position next to him.

"Corporals Richelieu, Perrin and Caron will be the leaders of squads two, three and four respectively," he continued, three other seniors saluting and walking in front of the section. Time for the big news. "And finally, private Winchester will take command of squad five."

If Cardin was surprised he hid it better than some of the other privates near him. "Sir," he saluted, following after the seniors.

"Because of your new assignment as well as your exceptional service so far, I hereby promote private Winchester into a corporal," Jaune declared in his best formal tone, handing Cardin his new stripes. "Congratulations, corporal Winchester."

"Thank you, sir," Cardin replied as he accepted the stripes. The seniors began to clap as he walked next to the other squad leaders, the rest of the section quickly following suit.

"Well I'll be damned," Sky muttered as the clapping died down.

"I'm surprised he's willing to promote any of us so soon," Dove mumbled.

"Could've picked worse," Russel chimed in, still clapping.

"Now let's get to the squad compositions." Jaune cleared his throat. "Each squad leader will be given seven subordinates, who they will assign into fireteams. Squad one will consist of privates Roth, Beaufils, Duchene…"

Several minutes passed with him assigning the members of each squad in numerical order. Finally, there were only seven unassigned privates left.

"Privates Ni, Stallion, Porfirio, Zedong, Lark, Bronzewing, and Thrush, you will make up squad five," Jaune finished, taking a long gasp of air. "With all that out of the way, you better get used to your new squadmates. You'll train together, you'll eat together, you'll fight together. Should your squad leaders feel like it, you'll also peel potatoes together and do your taxes together. So behave yourselves. Dismissed."

As the members of the newly reinforced platoon three began to slowly make their way to their tents, Jaune quietly lifted his face to stare at the night sky.

"Please let us succeed, this one time," he whispered as he looked at the stars. "Or failing that, please don't let this become another Eguisheim."

* * *

 **For those interested, francs were the currency of France during the time of the war. 10 old francs would be about 2,7 USD in modern day.**


	8. Chapter 8

" _A man has to be alert all the time if he expects to keep on breathing. If not, some German son-of-a-bitch will sneak up behind him and beat him to death with a sock full of shit._ " -George S. Patton

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 8**

* * *

The rustle of leaves. The light breeze of autumn wind. The cool night air gently hugging everything in the darkness of the Ardennes.

The distant sounds of mortar shells falling.

Russel stifled a yawn as he tiredly rubbed his eyes, trying to stay focused. Easier said than done, considering he'd been at it for almost two hours now.

While guard duty was dull during the daytime, it was also simple and easy. Stand still, scan your surroundings, make a lot of noise if an enemy shows up. Basic stuff.

Things were very different during the later hours. Standing still was easy enough, but the suffocating darkness made spotting anything farther than five meters away all but impossible. Despite being outside, Russel felt claustrophobic. This combined with the fact that he primarily relied on his hearing for navigation made him incredibly jumpy.

"Who the hell would even consider attacking right now? So many friendly fire incidents just waiting to happen," he half grumbled, half-yawned.

"You ever heard of the Battle of Fort Castle?" Sky mumbled somewhere from his right. "The most famous night operation in recent history?"

"Who the hell would name their fortress Castle?" Russel tiredly mused.

"Why would you choose to focus on that?" Sky snapped. "Anyway, there's this Portuguese general named Lagune, fighting against the Germans in one of their African colonies."

"Right…" Russel yawned.

"The Portuguese are better equipped and outnumber the Germans two-to-one. The boches are constantly falling back from them, until they finally decide to make a stand in one of their fortresses."

"Mhm."

"Lagune thinks they have them dead to rights, and bombards the everliving daylights out of the fortress. The whole thing is basically just a pile of rubble at the end of the week."

"Yeah…"

"But Lagune wants a clean victory, so instead of just assaulting the fort straight up, he instead orders his troops to attack at night. Easier to get close without getting mown down by a machine gun."

"Mmmhhmm…"

"So the night comes and the Portuguese get to it. Assault the fort from all sides, get really close to the walls. The Germans are barely putting up a fight, buried underneath their own fortress or just blown to pieces. Looks like a clear victory for Lagune."

"Hrrmmmh…"

"Except that the moment the Portuguese take a step inside the fort, all hell breaks loose. Suddenly hundreds of Germans start firing at them from hidden trenches all around the fort, and the ones still inside the fort detonate some mines near the entrances.

"..."

"The Portuguese forces are in complete disarray, some of them try to break into the fort, some of them try to retreat. Most of those that tried got gunned down. So Lagune sends in the rest of his forces to clear out the trenches."

"..."

"But when they get there, the Germans have already left and detonate more mines inside the trenches. The guys trying to get into the fort have all died or booked it, and the fort's defenders bring out their machine guns once more."

"..."

"So Lagune gives the order to retreat. Lost nearly half of his forces against a weaker enemy, with nothing to show for it. Got relieved of command real soon afterward."

"..."

"And the moral of the story is, don't be an idiot during night combat. Sure, the Portuguese got close to the fort thanks to the darkness, but at the same time they didn't notice the trenches or the mines. So you keep your eyes and ears open, our lives quite literally depend on it."

"..."

"Russel?"

"..."

"Thrush? You still there, man?"

"Zzzzz…..."

"Are you fucking serious…" Sky brought his hand to his face. Wordlessly he made his way to his partner, silently fuming. Without a moment's hesitation, he jabbed the stock of his rifle right into his snoring partner's gut. Hard.

A noise resembling a panicked goose left Russel's mouth, followed by a mighty gasp as air left his lungs. Wheezing and coughing at the same time, he ungracefully fell on his hands and knees as his dizzy mind attempted to make sense of the situation.

"Wakey-wakey, you moron," Sky glared at his partner. "Sleeping on guard duty, that's a court marshaling right there."

"Gimme a fucking break man," Russel wheezed back.

"Giving you a break now will mean the next thing breaking will be the back of your head when an opportunistic boche sneaks up on you," Sky kicked his partner's side. "So cut that shit out, and keep staring into nothingness like you're supposed to be doing."

"Bam, you're both dead."

Sky spun around with his rifle raised, Russel scrambling to his feet at the sound of the new voice. They were greeted by the blurry figures of two people, barely recognizable in the darkness.

"Might want to tone the voice down a little, I'm pretty sure you woke the LT up with that screech," one of the two said, the feminine voice revealing her identity. "And just made yourself a target for every German mortar this side of the border."

"Piss off, Zedong," Sky rolled his eyes as he lowered his weapon.

"No can do, our shift starts in a minute," she smirked. "Unless you'd like to stand another two hours here in our place. Suits me just fine."

May Zedong was the first half of squad five's first fireteam, the second being her partner Nolan Porfirio. She was also the best shot in the entire platoon, even counting the more senior members. A fact she constantly loved to remind Sky of, who was the number two rifle marksman of their squad.

"Please no," Russel cut in. "Any more and I'll start seeing things. This forest does weird things to your head."

"Yeah. And we're still the ones getting off easy," Nolan said. "Some of the sevens are out patrolling right now. They actually had a run in with some German scouts last evening. No bodies for either side, but one of our guys got hit pretty bad in his leg."

"Shit, will he make it?" Russel asked, kneeling to pick up the rifle he had dropped.

"It was bad, but I don't think that bad. He won't be walking for a while, though," Nolan replied.

"Fucking hell…" Russel mumbled, suddenly not at all sleepy.

A snapping sound brought an end to their exchange, all four raising their weapons and pointing them the direction the sound had came from. Which was directly from the woods they were supposed to be watching.

"Easy there, everybody," May whispered, kneeling down behind a boulder. "Probably just some animal."

"Yeah," Nolan kneeled next to her. "Still doesn't mean we shouldn't check it. Volunteers?"

"Hey, your shift, your job. I'm supposed to be sleeping right now," Sky whispered back.

"Don't be such a pussy, Lark," May said with a slight grin. "Show us lesser mortals what the second-best shooter can do."

"I'll go," Russel interceded before Sky could come up with a response that would've likely given their position away. "Watch my back, guys."

"Godspeed, man," Nolan nodded as Russel stood up. "Be careful."

Without another word, Russel brought the stock of his rifle on his shoulder and began to slowly walk towards the spot the sound had come from. The dark forest was something straight out of a horror story, and his ears struggled to catch anything other than the sound of leaves or his own footsteps. He knelt down to take a better look at his surroundings, sweeping his front with the rifle.

When no Germans came charging from the darkness, Russel stood up and began to advance once again. He did his best to keep his breathing quiet, but his heartbeat was something he had very little control over. Even if someone else might not have heard it, to him the fast beat emanating from his chest was almost deafening.

Russel almost screamed when something touched his shoulder, a second later realizing it was just a branch. Just as he was about to start moving once more he froze, his ears desperately attempting to locate something he was not sure he had heard.

Heart in his throat, Russel stood still as a statue as he waited, silently praying the sound had simply been his mind playing tricks on him. The near-perfect darkness and the unsettling sounds of the forest did that to people. It was perfectly reasonable to interpret it as an auditory hallucination.

His prayers went unanswered as another crack reached his ears, his body moving on its own to point the rifle towards a bush which leaves were visibly shaking. Cold sweat pouring down his back, heart beating faster than what was probably healthy, he brought his finger on the trigger, and squeezed.

Nothing happened.

It took him several seconds to even realize something was wrong. With almost hysteric movements his right arm worked the bolt, loading a cartridge into the empty chamber. Aiming at the bush again, he pressed his finger against the trigger once more.

A high-pitched shriek assaulted his ears before he could push the trigger all the way down, causing him to tumble back in surprise. Desperately flailing to avoid falling down, he managed to catch a glimpse of a terrified fawn fleeing into the darkness. Regaining his balance, he simply stood still for a moment.

And began to laugh.

Russel could physically feel the relief crashing into him like a warm wave, washing away all the panic and anxiety he had felt mere seconds ago.

"Guys, it's all clear," he yelled over his shoulder, still chuckling. "Just a scared deer. Nothing to worry ab…"

A loud bang interrupted his call and for a brief moment, he wondered if he had accidentally squeezed the trigger too hard. Then something hit his left shoulder with the strength of a freight train, the sudden push throwing him off his feet. He realized he was falling, the pain radiating from his shoulder keeping his mind focused just long enough for him to feel his head hit the ground.

For a few seconds his whole world was nothing but pain, before the void mercifully swept over him and everything went black.

* * *

"Nothing to worry ab…"

The gunshot silencing Russel's voice caused Sky's already high adrenaline levels to finally leak and spill over. With a grunt of effort, he lept over the tree trunk he had been hiding behind, rushing after his partner.

"Lark, what the hell are you doing?!" May hissed after him. "Fuck, seriously, fuck. That fool's gonna kill himself."

"We have to help them," Nolan said, voice cracking a little.

"What the hell are we supposed to do? We run in there and all of us get gunned down," May peeked past the edge of the boulder.

"Suppressing fire, insulting their mothers, whatever to get their attention," Nolan whispered back, still shaky. "Anything's better than cowering behind a rock doing nothing."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," May finished her chain of profanities before raising her rifle. "Yeah, you're right. You stay here, I'll go after number two." After receiving a nod from her partner, she took a deep breath before taking off in a sprint.

Nolan quickly fired two shots into the darkness, unlikely to hit anything but hopefully getting the attention of everyone close by. If the initial shot hadn't alerted the rest of their platoon, these would do the job.

* * *

Sky's world was a blur as he ran in the dark forest, slowing down every few seconds to check for Russel. He stumbled as two additional shots rang out, before realizing they had come from behind him. " _Ours,_ " his mind registered before going back to looking for his partner.

He didn't have to search for long, seeing how slowly Russel had walked to conceal his footsteps. Roughly fifty meters from their lookout spot he noticed an unmoving body wearing a French uniform, still gripping a rifle in its right hand.

"Russel, wake up you fucking idiot. Don't you dare go dying on me, talk damn it!" he stammered, slapping his partner on both cheeks, to no effect. His eyes widened when he noticed the big red splotch in his left shoulder, the stain slowly growing as he stared at it.

"You still owe me a full pack of cigs, no, TWO full packs after this," he said, voice hoarse. "Don't think for a moment this'll get you out of debt."

Lifting his partner's uninjured arm over his shoulder, he managed to take three steps before stumbling, almost dropping Russel in the process. Carrying an unconscious body was apparently a lot harder than the books made it out to be.

"Every morning, you fat fuck," Sky desperately wheezed as he again tried to drag Russel away from the puddle slowly forming beneath him. "Screw the cigs, I'll be having your chocolate and cheese as well. You obviously need to drop a few grams."

Despite his efforts, Russel's unmoving body refused to budge. With a cry of frustration, Sky placed him down. "Fuck, fucking fuck, why won't you move?! FUCK!"

"Keep it the hell down, you moron," a voice interrupted his delirious rant, May appearing from the darkness a few seconds later. Another shot echoed from their lookout spot, Nolan doing his best to draw attention away from them. "Shit, this is not good," she whispered as she knelt down next to Russel.

"No shit it's not good, got something else to add captain obvious?," Sky snapped, grabbing Russel's arm once more.

"Stop that, you'll injure him like that," May hissed, tearing Sky's hands away from his partner. "We need to stop the bleeding, or he won't make it back to the camp. You got anything we could use as bandages?"

"No, do I look like a medic to you?" Sky croaked back, gulping.

"Shit, lemme think…" she trailed off, eyes closed. After a few seconds they snapped back open, turning to stare directly into Sky. "Lark, you got your bayonet?"

"What, why? Don't you have yours?" he replied with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"I left it in my tent. You got yours or what?" she could feel her own pulse speeding up.

"Yeah, yeah, right here," he grabbed something from his belt and handed it to her.

"Great, thanks," she accepted the long knife, bringing its blade to Russel's uninjured shoulder.

"Wait, what the hell do you think you're..." Sky didn't have time to finish his question before May's hand moved, cutting the right sleeve of Russel's uniform clean off.

"Saving your buddy, now give me a hand here," she growled as she turned her attention to Russel's wound.

Despite neither of them being medics they managed to bandage the wound, even if the bandage itself was anything but ideal. At least it stopped the bleeding.

"Right, now we move," May whispered, breathing heavily. "You take his arms, I'll take his legs."

"Yeah, right, of course," Sky mumbled, staring at his partner. "Let's get him out of here."

Lifting Russel up, the two of them began to make their way back to their camp, Nolan's constant gunshots giving them a sense of direction in the darkness. After a few awkward steps they managed to find a rhythm, and began to pick up the pace.

"Don't you die on me now, Thrush," Sky weakly croaked between gasps of air. "Don't you fucking dare."

* * *

 **No, Russel! Don't you know it's a bad idea to shout out loud when you're trying to stay hidden?**

 **Also, I never thought about it before, but Fort Castle is kinda silly name for a fortress.  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**Wow... just wow. I honestly don't know what to say right now. When I published this thing I thought the whole WW2-concept would be too niche to attract a lot of attention. Especially with Jaune as the only main cast character. But oh boy, did you guys prove me wrong.**

 **Seriously, thank you to every single one of you who gave this odd idea a chance, and took the time to read it all the way through. I'd give you a hug if I could. Two if you reviewed. You guys are awesome. But enough of the mushy stuff, let's get back to the French front where the officers are assholes, food sucks and life is miserable.**

* * *

" _War is neither glamorous nor attractive. It is monstrous. Its very nature is one of tragedy and suffering._ " -Dalai Lama

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 9**

* * *

Platoon three's whole camp was in disarray.

Jaune pushed through the mass of tents and confused soldiers, shoving one of them aside as he made his way forward. Visibility was still horrible despite the lanterns and flashlights some of the soldiers were carrying, but after a few minutes of frantic searching he managed to find the platoon's new signaller.

"Please tell me you have something," he stopped in front of the woman.

"Yes, and then some," she replied, rapidly switching channels. "Every channel is clogged, full of officers and operators wanting to know what the hell is going on. Everybody knows something's the matter, but nobody has the full picture." She took off her helmet to wipe her forehead, sweaty despite the cool night air. "As for something actually useful, all I've got is that there are boches somewhere around there shooting at our patrols," she pointed at the darkness with her thumb, not looking away from the radio.

" _Fuck, if this is an actual German attack they can possibly push us out because of all the confusion_ " Jaune bit his tongue as his mind raced. "Keep on trying. Try to get in contact with captain Lacoste, and forward any messages from command to me."

"Will do," the signaller nodded, staying back as Jaune left looking for his next stop.

" _The Germans weren't supposed to be close enough to mount an offensive yet, is our intel faulty or is this something else?_ " a million questions flew through his mind as his eyes scanned the soldiers surrounding him. " _They shouldn't be able to move vehicles through here, and the nearest roads are kilometers away. So they would only have infantry, maybe some field guns. With visibility so low, even half-tracks would have difficulty traversing here._ "

Finding his way to the large tent serving as their impromptu armory, Jaune was greeted by both Neptune and one of platoon seven's squad leaders, a corporal. Lit only by a single lantern in the middle of the tent, the dimly lit interior still felt luxurious compared to the darkness outside.

"Jaune, sir," Neptune quickly corrected his slip of tongue. "Do you mind telling us what the fuck this is?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Jaune replied, trying to calm himself. "Someone opened fire on our night patrols, and there are some small-scale firefights going on as we speak. No orders yet, so we're on our own initiative for the time being."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's gather our forces and attack. We have the advantage so close to our lines," the corporal spoke.

"We can't. We can barely walk in this darkness without stumbling, charging the Germans would be suicide," Jaune shook his head. "And with command silent, we risk advancing too far and leaving a weak spot to our lines."

"So wait it out? Let the boches come to us?" Neptune suggested, eying the weapons and equipment surrounding them.

"All we can do at the moment," Jaune nodded, grimacing. "I hate going in with so little information, but we have to be prepared in case the Germans try to push us out. What's the situation with our equipment?"

"Both Maxims are in working condition, and nothing was wrong with the shoulder-breaker to begin with," Neptune said, pointing at the massive anti-tank rifle. "Submachine guns are the big question. They're old, and the tech guys haven't had the time to look at them. They might jam, explode, or work perfectly fine. Impossible to say without trying."

" _Perfect, just perfect,_ " Jaune sighed. "We're going to need the Maxims, one for both platoons. Let's take the big gun as well, just in case." He paused for a moment, picking one submachine gun from the shelf. It was beaten and rusty, some parts bent out of shape. It would be a miracle if the thing still functioned properly. "Leave the submachine guns for now, we can't risk them malfunctioning in the middle of a firefight."

"Right," Neptune grabbed one of the machine guns, motioning for his subordinate to take the other one. "Who's going to shoot the shoulder-breaker?"

Jaune kneeled down, picking up the giant rifle. "I have someone in mind," he replied before leaving the tent.

* * *

Cardin Winchester was pissed.

No, saying he was pissed would've been the understatement of the century. He had woken up after mere three hours of sleep, only to find out some asshole had knocked his boots down into a puddle of mud. Once he had finally gotten them cleaned and prepared to hit the hay again, there had been gunshots. And when he had gathered his squad to wait for orders, he had heard that one of them had already been shot and might not make the night.

So, Cardin Winchester wasn't pissed off or angry. Cardin Winchester was absolutely _fucking_ livid.

The rest of squad five seemed to have realized this, seeing how their usual chatter and complaining was gone. That or the fact that their second-best bullshitter was currently lying on a stretcher en route to the field hospital, one or the other. Cardin almost hoped one of them would say something, just so that he could shut them up. He needed some outlet for the rage boiling inside of him, badly.

Both of the platoons had gathered next to three's camp, in front of the armory tent. Sergeant Vasilias had entered the tent ten minutes ago, lieutenant Arc following shortly after, to what he presumed to be an emergency meeting. What they were talking about he had no idea, but hoped dearly it involved dead Germans. A lot of dead Germans.

"Alright everyone, listen up," a voice came from inside the tent, lieutenant Arc emerging shortly after. He was carrying the so-called anti-tank rifle in his hands, two others dragging the Maxim guns behind him. "You don't know what's going on and quite frankly, neither do I. There have been no orders from command, and we can't contact them. All that's certain is that somewhere out there, Germans are shooting at us." He paused to take a breath. "Now we are going to go out there, and return the favor."

"What do we know about the enemy?" corporal Perrin asked, his squad standing next to Cardin's.

"Very little," Arc admitted. "Low visibility and clogged radio channels have made it difficult to get a clear picture of the situation. The Germans haven't tried taking our positions, either."

"Could this be just reconnaissance from their part? Scouting in force?" Perrin suggested, causing some of the other squad leaders to nod in agreement.

"It's a possibility, but we have to prepare for the worst," Arc replied. "Should this be an actual offensive and they push us back, they open a path for their armor through the forest roads. Our first priority is to make sure that doesn't happen." He dropped the stock of the giant rifle on the ground, holding it one-handed like an oversized walking stick. "As for their strength, we can assume their force is mostly infantry, possibly some artillery support and offroad vehicles. Their Panzers would be hard-pressed to pass through here." Which was the reason for their own lack of armor as well. Well, apart from the fact that they didn't have any proper tanks, of course.

"I take it their numbers are unknown as well?" one of platoon seven's squad leaders cut in.

"Yes, unfortunately," Arc grimaced. "For now, assume platoon strength, but be prepared for anything. We are going in blind, quite literally," he motioned around them with his free arm. "With that being said, you are going to get some new gear to help with this operation."

"Could've fooled me," May said as the Maxim guns were carried to them.

"The Maxims are in working condition, and will boost our firepower considerably," Arc continued. "Both platoons will be issued one. As for this thing," he lifted the anti-tank rifle meaningfully. "Corporal Winchester's squad will have it. Corporal, she's all yours."

"Fucking wonderful," Sky grumbled.

"Stow it," Cardin snapped at him. "Since you two seem to have complaints about our equipment, you get the honor of using the newest addition to our arsenal." Both May and Sky flinched, the latter walking to the lieutenant to retrieve the weapon. Zedong would've been his choice anyway, seeing how good the bitch was with a rifle, but she was going to need a support gunner. Despite being the squad's most well-behaved soldier Nolan couldn't shoot for shit, and wouldn't make a good support for his partner. Lark needed a new fireteam anyway, with his own down to half.

"So, here's the plan," Arc started speaking again. "We know very little about the enemy, so platoon three will form a defensive firing line to cover friendly patrols still engaged by the Germans. Platoon seven in turn will split into two sections to cover three's flanks, and advance to surround the enemy in case the situation allows it."

"Seems a bit… basic," one of platoon seven's squad leaders commented, before being silenced by a glare from sergeant Vasilias.

"It is," Arc admitted, his expression a mix of guilt and awkwardness. "But the situation being what it is, there's not much else we can do. We lack the time and knowledge to come up with an elaborate plan and more often than not, doing things the simple way is the correct choice. In all likelihood, the Germans will retreat instead of pushing against a defensive line with no heavy support."

"That's being optimistic," Dove snorted.

"Leaders, get your squads ready, we move in three minutes," Arc raised his voice one final time. "Stay focused, stay smart, and we'll all make it through this." He let his voice drop. "Good luck."

* * *

Unpleasant memories flooded Sky's mind as they passed the spot they'd been standing guard in less than an hour ago. The fighting was very close now, a steady chain of gunshots echoing from the darkness ahead of them.

"Keep your heads down," Cardin barked out. "And dig in, we'll hold here."

They had stopped behind a small ridge close to their lookout spot. Sky was still carrying the anti-tank rifle and took the opportunity to place it down for a moment. It was stupid just how heavy that thing was to drag around.

Unfortunately for them there was no cover on top of the ridge, meaning the slope itself was the only thing between them and German bullets. Which would mean lying down, crawling and rolling around to avoid said German bullets. He grimaced at the thought.

"Zedong and Lark, get that thing set up. But only use it if there's a suitable target," Cardin pointed at the giant rifle on the ground. "I don't need you dislocating your shoulders over some grunts."

"Sure, sure," May hissed, not very enthused about the idea of firing the gun. "Lark, you've got it, mind passing it here?"

"Hmh, oh yeah, sure," Sky absentmindedly replied, picking the rifle up. May accepted it without a word, setting it down in front of her just before the top. The gunshots coming from the other side of the ridge weren't aimed at them, at least not yet, but something about them put him off.

"Lark, get your shit together!" Cardin snapped at him, kneeling down. "One of those boches out there is the guy who put a hole in Thrush, so now's your chance to put a few to them in return."

Sky's free hand balled into a fist, but he managed to keep his mouth shut.

"Everybody ready?" Cardin shot a meaningful look at Sky. "Let's get to it, then. Find yourself a position, but don't fire without my mark."

Sky went prone with the rest of the squad, trying his best to ignore the muddy ground underneath him. Careful not to dip his rifle into the mud, he began to crawl after Cardin and Nolan. May was already at the top of the ridge, waiting next to the anti-tank rifle.

"You doing okay?" she asked as Sky got closer, taking the spot on her left.

"Never been better," he grunted, not meeting her eyes.

"Russel's tough, he's gonna be up and running first thing in the morning," she said, patting his shoulder. "But now we have to take care of his killing quota as well as our own," she added with a small smirk.

Sky found himself smiling as well. "That I can do."

"Our job is to suppress the Germans to allow our remaining patrols to retreat, so don't do anything stupid," Cardin's instructions shut them up. "If it moves, you shoot it, if it doesn't, you still shoot it. And in case you don't see anything, you shoot in their general direction." He turned to look forward, aiming down his sights. "Get ready."

Sky worked the bolt of his rifle, pointing it towards the sound of gunfire. May mimicked the motion in his right.

"Fire on my mark," Cardin was almost growling.

Sky took a deep breath, bringing his right eye behind the iron sights. " _Time to get some payback for Russel._ "

"Fire!"

Seven rifles roared to life on Cardin's command, sending bullets flying into the darkness and marking the beginning of squad five's first battle.

* * *

 **Finally getting into the good stuff. I probably dragged this on more than what was necessary, but here we go. And once more, thank you to everyone who read and reviewed!**


	10. Chapter 10

**There we go, it only took ten chapters for a war-themed fic to get into the actual fighting.**

* * *

" _In preparing for battle, I have always found that plans are useless but planning is indispensable._ " -Dwight D. Eisenhower

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 10**

* * *

"We have another one here!"

"Just stay still, it'll be alright!"

"Pass me the forceps, please."

The French field hospital had turned from a hibernating beehive into a hornet's nest on fire in less than an hour. Doctors, medics and aides hurried through the corridors, some of them carrying or dragging wounded soldiers with them. The whole building was buzzing with activity, the orders of the doctors, acknowledgments of the medics and cries of the wounded filling every floor.

Velvet's mind was nothing but a chain of orders, instructions and hazy pictures of her hands working on faceless patients. With machine-like efficiency, she finished stitching a wound shut, muttered some words of encouragement to the man lying in front of her, and moved on to the next stretcher. A woman clutching her side, two holes in her hip. She dug up her forceps and scissors before even kneeling down next to the soldier.

"Shh, it's alright, nothing to worry about" she tried in her best soothing voice as she examined the wounds. It was actually the exact opposite, but knowing that wouldn't be very likely to calm the woman down. Staying silent and perfectly still would improve her odds of survival far more than thrashing around in panic would.

The soldier hissed through clenched teeth as she touched the area around the wound. Nothing vital was hit at least, that was good. She picked up the scissors and brought the blades next to the line where the soldier's uniform turned from blue to red. With careful movements, she began to cut the fabric.

"It doesn't look like any vital organs are hit, so a couple of stitches should be enough," she said as she worked. As painful as the wounds likely were, she was lucky the bullets hadn't reached any major blood vessels or organs. Had that been the case, there was very little she could have done to help her.

"You're… not just saying that… are you?" the soldier's voice was pained and shaky.

"No no, you're actually very lucky, even if it might not feel like it at the moment," she dared to smile a little. "A few weeks and you're as good as new. Had the German aimed a little more to the left, we might not be talking right now."

"I guess I… really dodged a bullet, then," the woman let out a hoarse laugh, but grimaced and shut her mouth a second later. "Figuratively speaking."

"Indeed you did," Velvet replied as she removed the red-stained piece of the uniform.

"Honestly… this is not how things… were supposed to go," her patient continued. "There were supposed to be… just a few boches taking… potshots at our night guards. Just a… small skirmish, you know?"

A shiver went down Velvet's spine. She had no idea what was going on outside, other than that it involved a lot of wounded French soldiers. She was not an expert tactician by any stretch of the imagination, but now that she thought about it that was not something a small-scale skirmish between night patrols should cause. "How bad are things, then?" she asked, already fearing the answer.

"It's a... clusterfuck of the highest magnitude," her patient ground her teeth together as she brought out the needle. "There were supposed to be… just a few boches out there. A platoon at max. Turned out to be a… bit more than that. Our intel guys… have no idea how… to do their jobs, apparently."

Velvet gulped, not even sure she wanted to know more. "That bad?"

"No, worse. So much fucking worse," the woman spat. "We were prepared for… a few dozens. A platoon or two." Her bloodshot eyes were staring directly into Velvet's. "But there were hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds."

* * *

"Get down!"

Sky did not even stop to make sure the warning was directed at him and dived down on the muddy ground as soon as his brain registered the words. A second later a burst of machine gun fire tore open the trunk of a tree behind him, the rounds hitting exactly where he had been standing.

He should have felt something at that. Shock or panic because of the near-death experience, relief for the fact that the bullets had missed him, or gratefulness to whoever had saved his bacon. Instead, the only thing he felt was an overwhelming need to get back up and send some hot steel flying back at the boches. Reaching for his rifle, he checked no mud had made it inside the weapon. Not finding anything that would jam the gun, he began to crawl to a small impact crater left by a mortar shell. Theirs or the Germans', he had no idea.

The suffocating darkness that had been the bane of their existence while on guard duty was no more, the sun slowly starting to peek from behind the horizon to shed some light into the woods. Two hours earlier he'd have been thrilled at the thought of not having to check his footing every three seconds, but right now he felt that the burning ball of gas was working for the enemy. As difficult as the darkness had made life at times, it at least discouraged any overly aggressive maneuvers from both sides. Now that the shadowy curtain was gone, it was finally possible to see the enemy properly.

Unfortunately, that worked both ways.

He flinched as a round whizzed over his head, but kept on going. " _Get something solid between you and the boches, then figure out what to do,_ " he repeated to himself for the hundredth time, trying to ignore the chaos raging all around him. He saw a group of six blue uniforms sprinting through the gunfire not far in front of him, making their way to a machine gun nest silenced by the German artillery some time ago. Only four of them made it to their destination.

" _Assume platoon strength my ass,_ " he silently growled as he finally reached the crater. " _Apparently German platoons are a little bit bigger than ours._ "

And speaking of platoons, he had no idea where the rest of the threes were. When shit had hit the fan there hadn't really been time to carefully assess the situation and before he knew it, he was standing alone against a squad of charging Germans. A hastily thrown hand grenade had bought him enough time to leg it and hide, but now all he had left was his rifle and bayonet. He dearly hoped he wouldn't have to use the latter one.

He peeked over the side of the crater, careful not to expose any more of his head than what was necessary. The woodlands in front of him were still relatively intact, with only a couple unlucky trees blown to splinters by artillery fire. Lifting his rifle over the edge, he assumed as firm a firing position as the dirthole allowed him to and took aim at a group of three Germans closing in on the newly manned machine gun position. Just as one of them brought his arm back to throw a grenade, Sky fired.

Even if he was only the second-best rifleman in their squad, that wasn't exactly an insult when compared to May. The first time their section had been at a firing range he had hit all five of his shots, each of them at least eight points out of ten. And those had been from one hundred and fifty meters. These boches were well within that distance.

The would-be grenade thrower cried out and jerked backward, a small hole bleeding red on his uniform decorating his chest. The other two continued forward, determined to silence the machine gun, either not noticing or caring about their wounded comrade. Sky worked the bolt and squeezed the trigger, the German closest to the nest dropping his submachine gun and grabbing his right arm, but not slowing down. His third shot went wide, flying just past the head of the now unarmed submachine gunner.

Sky sneered and worked the bolt again, sending a fourth bullet flying toward the Germans. It struck the crippled submachine gunner in his thigh, finally bringing him down as his leg gave in. Loading the clip's fifth and final round, he took aim on the final German.

Sky's blood ran cold as he noticed the grenade, the German's arm already moving in a vertical arc. With no time to aim properly, he pulled the trigger all the way down.

The German stumbled, letting go of the grenade just as the bullet scratched his shoulder. Sky could only watch as the club-shaped explosive spun through the air in slow motion, flying over a low wall of dirt hastily built to protect the French position. Reaching its peak height the grenade spun one final time before it ran out of momentum and began to fall.

Right on top of the machine gun nest.

The grenade went off mid-air, but still close enough for the blast to hit. The machine gun fell silent, being the only invitation needed for the dozen nearby Germans to break cover. With shaky hands, Sky fished a new clip from his belt and began to reload his rifle.

* * *

"I'm going to find the man who created hand grenades and break his arms," Cardin growled as he sat up, holding his head. "Then he won't be able to throw grenades anymore. He'll be left without a job, and his wife will dump him for the guy who invented rifle grenades. It will be poetic justice." His head spun and with a grimace he stood up, the feeling of nausea hitting him instantly.

"And apparently I have a concussion, fucking perfect," he ground his teeth together as he felt bile rising to his throat.

Stallion and Ni had gone down when they made their charge for the machine gun. Porfirio, Zedong, and Bronzewing weren't anywhere in sight either, so it was safe to assume they had managed to get out of the way of the grenade. Whether or not something else had killed them was another matter entirely, one he had no time to worry about right now.

"This piece of junk better still work," he muttered as he grabbed the handles of the Maxim gun the Germans so desperately wanted to take out. The damn thing was barely holding together even before a grenade had went off right on top of it, but its firing mechanism seemed to be intact. Doing his best to ignore the vertigo running loose inside his head, he aimed the weapon at the Germans closing in on him and opened fire.

The boche closest to him fell as a spray of bullets tore open his upper torso, the rest of them scattering in surprise. The Maxim was creaking dangerously, threatening to tear itself off of its tripod entirely, but Cardin kept the stream of lead going. Even if the fire was inaccurate it would still suppress the Germans, giving someone else a chance to flank them. If there was someone left to flank them.

Grinning like a maniac at the sight of the boches flattening themselves against the ground, Cardin aimed a little lower. The bullets kicked up dirt and mud as they impacted in front of the Germans, some of whom were starting to return fire with their rifles and submachine guns. Cardin fixed his aim a bit, targeting one of the submachine gunners who quickly brought his head down under the barrage. Considering he was taking on a whole German squad on his own, things were going relatively well.

Just as he finished the thought, the Maxim fell silent.

A brief moment passed where Cardin and the Germans simply stared at each other, the battle around them forgotten. Then one of the Germans began to crawl forward. Then a second. And a third.

"Fucking butter churn, don't you dare quit on me now!" Cardin yelled in a mixture of rage and panic, repeatedly mashing the trigger. Empty clicks were the only response given by the weapon, and it took him almost full five seconds to realize the true reason for the malfunction: the ammo belt was empty, trigger discipline having gone completely forgotten by him in his firing frenzy.

Where were the extra belts? None of his squad had had any, seeing how they weren't issued with the automatic guns. None of the bodies surrounding the nest seemed to have any either, meaning the antiquated weapon was little more than an oversized paperweight now.

Realizing the implications of the situation, Cardin reached for his bayonet. One should never bring a knife to a gunfight, but a knife was still leagues better than bare fists. Pulling the blade out of its sheath he kneeled next to the temperamental Maxim, waiting for the first boche to jump over the modest dirt barrier in front of the weapon.

"Just a little bit closer, you damn sausage-muncher," he growled under his breath. "Corporal Cardin Winchester's about to give you a proper French welcome."

* * *

 **Corny one-liner is corny.**

 **Also, I haven't written a lot of fighting scenes, and that probably shows. Well, no better way to improve than by writing them.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Back again. My internet connection was dead the entire weekend, so I couldn't finish this despite it being almost done. -_-**

* * *

" _Always in a moment of extreme danger things can be done which had previously been thought impossible."_ -Erwin Rommel

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 11**

* * *

Everything was going to hell.

Scratch that, everything had already gone to hell.

Jaune fired another shot with his pistol without even aiming, not bothering to check if he had hit anything. Checking would've meant peeking out from the trench, which was not something he was willing to do at the moment. Curiosity killed the cat, after all. Or in this case, a German bullet killed the French officer.

" _Why didn't I issue myself a helmet as well? It's not like anyone would care if one went missing._ " He covered his unprotected head as something exploded near the trench, showering him and the few other nearby French soldiers with dirt and splinters.

"Keep firing, don't let them close in on us!" His voice could barely be heard from underneath the sounds of combat, but the soldiers took firing positions regardless. Whether they were following his orders or acting under their own initiative didn't matter so long as they fought. Removing the empty magazine from his pistol and inserting a new one, he glanced at his signaller. "Any news from the HQ?"

"Can't make it through to them," she replied, surprisingly calm despite the bullets flying over their heads. "I'm pretty sure the boches are jamming our signals. Wouldn't be this difficult otherwise."

Jaune bit his tongue in frustration, trying to think of something that would get them out of the mess. No orders and presumably no reinforcements either. They were outmanned, outgunned and about to be overrun. Retreating was possible, but it had to be a coordinated maneuver with both platoons involved instead of all of them simply turning their backs on the Germans and running. He had to get a message out to the other leaders, and sending a message with communications down would require a runner. Which could quite literally be a suicide run for the poor bastard.

" _Why does this keep happening?_ " he shook his head, suddenly feeling powerless. Pictures of Eguisheim started to creep into his vision, despite his attempts to keep them locked away. " _No, no no no no, no! I can't deal with this right now._ " He could almost hear the bombs falling, feel the shockwave as they hit their targets, smell the charred metal as his H35 burned.

And the bodies. Oh God, the bodies. He felt like throwing up.

" _Am I really cut out for this? Captain Lacoste even admitted he's only keeping me because he's short on officers._ " His hands balled into fists. He'd even told the captain the same thing was bound to happen again with him in command. And it had.

Ninety-three soldiers under his command had perished in Eguisheim. He was responsible for every single life lost that day. It was something that would likely haunt him forever, something that he couldn't, _wouldn't_ , forgive himself for.

But was it really his fault this time? They'd followed their orders and made their decisions based on the intel available to them. Intel that had severely downplayed the German presence near their positions. From a purely practical perspective, he hadn't done anything wrong. Even if both of his platoons were wiped out, the higher-ups would still have to admit the fault wasn't his.

" _What the hell is wrong with me?_ " he stared at the wall of the trench, the feeling of weakness replaced with disgust. This wasn't about him, or what he wanted. He had a responsibility as an officer and as much as he hated it, the lives of his soldiers were tied to his decisions. He closed his eyes.

Eguisheim had been a disaster, largely because of his own overconfidence and poor decision making. It was a shame he'd have to live with for the rest of his life, and there was nothing he could do to change that. It was too late for an officer to realize their mistakes when most of their subordinates were already dead. But that was not the case in the Ardennes, yet. His orders could still potentially influence the outcome of the battle. Or in the very least, limit the damages.

" _Too late for regrets_." He opened his eyes, turning to look at the soldiers desperately trying to hold off the German assault. If they were to retreat, some of them would have to stay back to cover the ones withdrawing. Leaving their positions empty would allow the Germans to simply pursue unopposed and gun them down.

"Sartre," he called out, one of the soldiers turning to look at him. Keeping his head down, Jaune made his way to him. "We can't hold here forever. We have to pull back, and get a word out so that everyone else does, as well."

"Agreed, sir," the sergeant nodded, kneeling down to reload his rifle. "But we can't just turn our backs on them and leave."

"No, we can't," Jaune agreed. "Which is why we need to organize a retreat. With the radio down, someone has to inform the rest of the guys." His face turned grim. "The old-fashioned way."

"A runner?" Sartre grimaced. "I don't disagree, but who's going to be the lucky winner? The odds aren't really in their favor."

"I've managed to get in touch with platoon seven!" the signaller interrupted their exchange, waving at them from her spot at the back of the trench.

Jaune could have kissed her right then and there, if it weren't highly inappropriate. Her or sergeant Sartre, he didn't really care. The relief he felt because of her words couldn't be described with words, and he wasn't sure if the most skilled poet in history could have accurately portrayed his feelings at that moment. Because of platoon seven's position at the sides of their formation, getting a message to them would've been very difficult, and most certainly fatal for the messenger. That left just platoon three, which was far easier.

"Yes! Tell them we're pulling back, but the three's have to be informed first," he instructed. "They'll have to hold until our runner delivers the message but once that's done, we're getting the hell out of here."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged, beginning to relay Jaune's message to platoon seven's signaller.

Jaune closed his eyes once more, letting the relief flow through him. A hopeless situation had just turned into a far more manageable one. It still wasn't ideal, platoon three being scattered as it was, but it was doable. Difficult but doable.

"I don't think I've ever heard more beautiful words in my life," Sartre commented from his side. "But that still leaves the rest of the threes. Someone has to find and tell them." He sighed. "I'll send one of my guys. Beauregard's the fastest, he can do it."

"No, you need all of them covering this position," Jaune shook his head, and looked Sartre directly into his eyes. "You're the most senior member of these platoons after sergeant Vasilias and myself. Do you think you can take care of things for a while?"

Sartre nodded, confused. "Sure, but why would there be a need for that? And we still need someone to…"

"Great, hold the fort!"

Jaune was moving before he even finished the order. Forcibly pushing aside his screaming survival instinct, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and rushed out of the trench.

* * *

Cardin swung his fist, forcing the surprised boche to use his rifle to bat his arm away. That left him wide open for a follow-up, however, and Cardin's bayonet-holding hand struck like lightning. The blade cut into the German's left arm, causing the man to cry out in pain and stumble a few steps back. Before he could bring his rifle to bear, Cardin was on him once again.

Another boche lunged at him with his own bayonet, holding his rifle like a spear. Cardin dodged right to avoid getting impaled, gritting his teeth as the wounded one managed to get some distance between them. Hand-to-hand combat against one opponent with a rifle was hard, against two at the same time it was even harder with them covering each other. The German kept up his assault, switching from thrusting to swinging his weapon sideways like a scythe. From the corner of his eye, Cardin could see the wounded one lining up a shot.

He would have to stay close to one of them. A rifle was too cumbersome to be used as a ranged weapon in close combat, and the other one couldn't shoot in fear of hitting his comrade. So long as he was on one of them, he could use his enemy as a shield. He brought his own bayonet up to block the sideways cut that almost took his ear off, and tackled the German before he could pull his weapon back for another thrust.

The two men fell to the ground, both of them desperately trying to get a grip on their opponent. The boche's fist connected with Cardin's jaw and his grasp in his bayonet loosened, the weapon falling from his hand. Stars filled his vision and the world began to spin around him, his head feeling like it would split apart.

Another punch struck his head, sending waves of agony all over his body. The boche sitting on top of him had apparently realized he wasn't fighting back anymore and lowered his fist, instead reaching for the bayonet lying next to them.

 _His_ bayonet.

"Not like this," he growled, not even caring the boche could hear him. It wasn't like they spoke the same language. "Dying in my first battle is one thing, but because of a little headache? And with my own weapon?" He spat on his opponent's face. "That's just insulting."

Cardin wasn't sure where he found the strength for the punch. The boche was thrown off of him completely, and with slow, clumsy movements, he managed to climb back on his feet.

Only to realize he no longer had a struggling human shield against the other German.

The boche he had stabbed before the short wrestling match was pointing his rifle directly at him. His aim was shaky with the wounded arm, but Cardin wasn't exactly in a condition to dodge the bullet and close in on the man.

"Not my own weapon, at least," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Sky would've never let me live that down."

A single gunshot rang out, and Cardin fell on his back.

* * *

"Cardin!"

Sky worked the bolt as the German aiming at Cardin fell, grimacing as he realized he was out of ammunition. Instead of looting one of the corpses, however, he rushed to the side of his fallen squad leader.

The boche hadn't fired, he was certain of it. He knelt down next to Cardin and scanned his body for wounds, finding none. Bringing his fingers to his neck, he released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding when he felt a pulse.

Unconscious. Clearly injured in some way, but alive. Possibly something to do with his bruised face, or the fact that he had been close to the German grenade when it went off. He gave his leader a light shake, pulling his arm back when there was no reaction.

"Shit, this is bad, this is really bad," he muttered to himself. "Where the hell are the rest of the guys? I could really use a hand right fucking now."

He couldn't move Cardin on his own, and even if he could he couldn't watch his back at the same time. All it would take was one opportunistic German spotting him and they would both go down.

"Fuck, why does this keep happening?" He grabbed Cardin from under his arms, dragging him farther away from the body of the German he had just shot. "Sevens must be stealing all of our luck or something. This just couldn't get any worse even if…"

His mouth snapped shut and he let go of his unconscious leader as his eyes focused on the sight in front of him. One body, brought down by him with his last bullet. Hadn't Cardin wrestled with one before falling?

" **Ich mag dich überhaupt nicht!** "

Sky instinctively threw himself to the side half a second before a stab from a German bayonet would have punctured his left lung. Climbing back on his feet and making sure he was still holding his rifle, he barely managed to dodge the second lunge from the boche he had thought was knocked out cold.

The boche yelled something at him, something very unflattering if the tone of his voice was anything to go by. The bayonet came for his blood again, but this time he managed to bring his own rifle in front of him in time to block the thrust. Batting the German's weapon to the side he followed the motion with a lunge of his own, aimed directly at his opponent's heart. The German took a few steps back and grabbed his chest as he was hit, but didn't go down. Sky was about to follow up with another stab but stopped himself when he realized why his opponent had shrugged off his attack like it had been nothing.

His bayonet was still hanging in his belt.

The German said something again, sounding equal parts offended and mocking. Sky had no time to fix his bayonet as the boche charged him once more, instead switching his grip so that he was holding his rifle like a bat.

"This wasn't what I meant when I said I didn't want to use a bayonet!" he yelled as he dodged the lunge, bringing the stock of his rifle to the side of the boche's head with a loud crack. Even with a helmet on, a hit like that was sure to cause some damage. The German stumbled, allowing him to deliver another strike to his shoulder.

Unfortunately for him, the blunt hits seemed to do little more than agitate his opponent. With a roar the boche continued his assault, forcing Sky back as he desperately blocked, parried, and dodged the whirlwind of jabs and swings. The frenzied German gave him no time to reach for his own bayonet, and he could feel his arms aching under the flurry of attacks. His opponent didn't show any signs of tiring, smiling viciously as Sky lost his footing and stumbled.

Sky wasn't sure what exactly went through his mind at that moment, only caring about the fact that his guard was open and the bloodthirsty boche was sure to exploit that. In a moment of desperate confusion, he brought his arm back and threw his rifle like a javelin.

The weapon hit the boche in his stomach, leaving no wound or mark as it harmlessly bounced off and fell to the ground. The German looked stupefied for a moment, until a mocking grin appeared on his face and laughter erupted from his mouth.

The mocking laughter was short lived as twenty kilos of Maxim gun struck the German squarely in his chest two seconds later.

Sky was breathing heavily, surprised he had even managed to lift, nevermind throw the weapon. There was a reason machine gunners operated in teams, and the antiquated weapon their platoon had been issued with was far heavier than the modern variants. A big hindrance most of the time, but useful in the odd day you decided to use the thing as a bludgeon.

Just as Sky kneeled down and reached for his rifle, the German came at him once again. The smile on his face had been replaced with a furious snarl.

There was nothing he could do. He was kneeling down, unarmed, and staring down an opponent whose enraged eyes promised bloody murder. Even if he somehow managed to get out of the way of the attack, he was exhausted. He had no strength left in him to take on an enemy who just wouldn't stay down.

Two shots rang out from behind him, and the boche stopped his charge. They were higher-pitched than the rifles he had grown so accustomed to hearing, making him think of a smaller firearm. A pistol?

The boche not four meters away from him lowered his gaze, staring at the two small holes in his chest. Just as he was about to take another step a third shot struck in between the two, the man collapsing in a heap.

"Lark. Lark! Speak to me, are you injured?" a voice called out to him.

"I'm not," he mumbled in response, rising to his feet. "But Cardin is."

"Shit, I need your help moving him," lieutenant Arc cursed as he put away his pistol, barrel still smoking. He dug up another one-handed firearm from one of the pouches in his belt, a small thing with almost comically short and wide barrel. A flare gun, Sky thought as Arc pointed it upwards. The man looked like he had ran through a blender, which probably wasn't all that far away from the truth, actually.

"Hold on just a little longer." Sky wasn't sure if the lieutenant was speaking to him or the unconscious body of Cardin. "We're getting out of here."

* * *

 **Jaune acting like a badass for once. Even if most of it was off-screen...**


	12. Chapter 12

**Back at it again. Nothing interesting to say on my part, so let's get to it.**

 **Also, a big thank you to everyone who took time to write a review, you guys are awesome!**

* * *

" _Difficulties break some men but make others._ " -Nelson Mandela

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 12**

* * *

Sorrow.

An immense feeling of grief, woe, and regret. Something suffocating, something that devours all joy in life. Something that clings to you, refusing to let go despite your best efforts to fight back.

A storm of emotions roared inside Jaune, despite the blank expression he was currently forcing on his face. Anger, both at the Germans for obvious reasons, and at the higher-ups, whose mistakes had resulted in countless unnecessary deaths. Fear, because of the volatile and uncertain situation they all found themselves in now. Relief, because of the disaster they had barely managed to avoid. Pride, seeing how hard they had fought despite the odds having been stacked against them. Sorrow, because of all the lives they had lost.

All of which had turned out to be irrelevant in the end.

"The German assault has been overwhelming, and our forward defense units are falling back by the dozens," captain Lacoste spoke, face grim. "The first line has been breached, and the second is close to a breaking point. The Germans also have control over most of the forest roads now, allowing them to bring in their heavy equipment."

The platoon commanders of Lacoste's company had gathered to his tent for a debriefing after they had been pulled back from the fighting. They were standing around a small round table with a map spread on top of it, depicting the surrounding terrain that had become far too familiar to them as of late.

Hell, most of their uniforms were closer to the color of mud than their original shade of blue.

Jaune had thought platoons three and seven had had it bad when the fighting first broke out. They had been outnumbered at least two-to-one, likely even more than that. And they had been caught off-guard by the attack's size and aggression. As it turned out, they had been among the luckier ones.

"First, fourth, and fifth platoons have suffered heavy casualties, third, sixth, and seventh moderate ones," Lacoste continued. "The second platoon has been effectively wiped out, and lieutenant Brun is either dead or captured. The company can hardly be considered combat effective any longer."

None of the platoon commanders said anything, but a few exchanged worried glances with each other. Each of them knew the status of their own forces but had likely been unaware of the situation as a whole. Jaune included.

Trying to hold the German assault at all had been a mistake, an effort doomed to fail from the start. It had cost them dearly, with a large portion of their defending forces either falling back or crippled by the body count. And with the German armor and heavy artillery presumably joining the battle soon, things wouldn't be getting any easier in the foreseeable future.

"So what are we going to do?" Jaune asked, voice flat. The other platoon commanders remained silent, some of them looking relieved someone was willing to become the center of attention to ask the question in everyone's mind. Lacoste's eyes locked into his, and once again he noticed how tired the captain looked.

"We, alongside the rest of our forward defense sections, will form a new defensive line and rally our retreating forces. We will then hold off the German assault until they exhaust themselves, and launch a counterattack." Lacoste's voice was filled with disdain as he spoke, as if saying the orders out loud made him physically ill.

"That's it?" Jaune humorlessly laughed. One might have considered questioning the orders of a superior officer a poor career move, but after escaping a disastrous shitstorm by the nonexistent skin of his teeth, he just couldn't bring himself to care about promotions. Or demotions, for that matter. He, as well as every other soldier of platoons three and seven, was lucky to be alive. Every other _remaining_ soldier.

They had only barely avoided another Eguisheim.

"We just lost half the company holding the line, unlike some others who didn't get off so easily." He had stopped laughing. " How does anyone who has even the slightest grasp of battlefield strategy still think it is a good idea?"

"Watch your tone, Arc," Lacoste warned. "I can be lenient from time to time, but my patience has a limit."

"They're sending us to die!" Jaune yelled, not caring about the scene he had put himself in. The rest of the platoon commanders had taken few steps away from him, leaving him alone under Lacoste's gaze. "For no good reason! We've already seen we can't beat the Germans conventionally. Something they're apparently blind to."

"Arc." Lacoste's furious stare and stern voice would have silenced him yesterday. But not now.

"Our high command is deluded, why the hell should we follow orders from them when they have no clue what's happening here? Or in case they do, they're both deluded and incompetent," he spat. "Their fantasy about a single decisive victory is a fool's errand, and all of us will be dead before they realize it. Us and France."

A loud smack brought his mind back from his rant that bordered on verbal treason, his eyes focusing on his surroundings once more. Lacoste's massive fist rested on the table, which had sunk a few centimeters to the ground under the force of the blow. Its wooden surface had cracked, and the piece of furniture looked ready to break in half.

"Arc, stay where you are." Lacoste's voice reminded him of a bear growling. "The rest of you, get your troops ready to move within three hours. Dismissed."

Ten seconds later the tent was empty apart from the two men staring at each other. One angrily, the other defiantly.

"I'm sorry for not offering you a drink this time," Lacoste broke the silence between them, sounding anything but. "But I do recall you not liking the last one very much, so it's probably for the best. More importantly though," his fist rose and fell down on the table again. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!"

Jaune was taken aback by the captain's outburst but kept his eyes locked into his. Before he could come up with a response, Lacoste continued. "The enemy offensive is still going, casualties are mounting, morale is at an all-time low, and you thought the best way to fix all of that is by taking away what little hope our people still have left. Absolutely. Fucking. GENIUS!" His last three words were each accompanied by his fist slamming down on the table, which was visibly creaking now.

"You don't like how things are going, I get it. Neither does anybody else, believe it or not. You are not the only one who can see the obvious writing on the wall," Lacoste glared. "But you are the only one not keeping quiet about it. Normally I'd find that admirable but right now, I can't afford one bleeding heart starting a riot."

"That's it, then? Bend over and take the abuse without fighting back?" Jaune finally opened his mouth. "The generals are old, and so are their ideas. We can't win this war by blindly following them like this."

"Arc, what is soldier's duty?" Lacoste's sudden question caused him to furrow his brows.

"To fight for his country," he easily replied. "To defend his family and home."

"Idealistic, but not the correct answer," Lacoste shook his head.

Jaune knew the answer the captain was expecting, having repeated the words dozens of times before. Never before, however, had they felt so difficult to say out loud. "Soldier's duty is to follow the orders of his superior, ensuring the chain of command is never broken."

"Indeed," Lacoste hummed. "We are both soldiers, Arc. The moment we start disobeying orders is the moment things start to fall apart. As strict and inflexible as our system is, blatantly going against it benefits no one."

"Running into a certain death just to appease someone who hasn't even seen the battlefield benefits no one, either," Jaune argued back.

"You're not wrong," Lacoste finally broke the staring contest between them, rubbing his eyes. "But these are orders from all the way up. Going against them would be desertion, and there's no time to call for a meeting to discuss this in more detail. My hands are tied."

"No, they're not!" Jaune yelled again. "You're important enough to make your own decisions. You have a better understanding of the state of this war than our supposed leaders. Not following senseless orders is not desertion!"

"That's enough, Arc," Lacoste interrupted. "As unpleasant as our orders may be, we will see them through."

Jaune lowered his gaze, biting his teeth in frustration. "We will all die."

"Possibly," Lacoste sighed, suddenly looking far older than he was. "Which is why not all of us will be going."

Jaune's eyes snapped back up.

"Your platoons are my rapid-response force, remember?" Lacoste said with a tired smile. "The rest of the company, or rather, what is _left_ of the company, will join the rest of our forces on the defense. You and your section will not."

Jaune's mind felt like it had malfunctioned. "What?"

"Officially, the casualties suffered by platoons three and seven were too high to replace, and they disbanded as a result," Lacoste continued, digging up a bottle from underneath the table. "In reality, you will have your own orders to carry out while the rest of us hold the line."

"You… I… What?"

"You're not the only one who doesn't see eye-to-eye with our high command," Lacoste said, pouring some of the hazy brown liquid into a glass. "But there is only so much I can do. Refusing direct orders won't go unnoticed by them, nor unpunished." A smug smile flashed on his face before he downed the drink in one go. "Too bad some of those orders might not get delivered on time, and as such cannot be followed. This whole war is one logistical nightmare, after all."

"You've been going against your orders?" Jaune asked, eyes wide. "This entire time?"

"No, I have followed each and every order that I have received," Lacoste shot him a meaningful look. "Which is what you should be doing as well. Speaking of which," He poured himself another glass. "Your orders."

"Are these the orders that I should fail to listen to?" Jaune furrowed his brows.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, this one time. But, your orders." Lacoste turned his back to him, pausing for a moment. "You, alongside your section consisting of platoons three and seven, will not take part in the defense. Instead, your objective is _this_."

Lacoste's hand slapped down on the table once more, but this time he was pointing to a single dot on it.

"What is that?" Jaune asked, the whole situation still feeling unreal.

"The South Ardennes Supply Depot," Lacoste replied. "It is the largest and most strategically valuable supply station in the entire region. Whoever controls it dictates the pace of the war in the Ardennes." His eyes met Jaune's. "It fell to the Germans less than a week ago, and we're already feeling the effects. A large portion of our forces was reliant on the depot for food, supplies, and ammunition, and are now short on all three. It also oversees most of the region's roads, allowing the Germans to transfer their vehicles through the forest with little difficulty."

"They'd have a direct path to Paris," Jaune whispered.

"Yes," Lacoste nodded grimly. "Our line is holding for now, but there's no telling how long it'll last. We're running short on time. Which is where you come in." He broke the eye contact. "Your section's objective is either the capture, or alternatively the destruction, of the South Ardennes Supply Depot."

A perfect silence befell on the tent. Jaune could hear the wind outside, and the footsteps of the soldiers walking just outside the tent. Even his own breathing sounded loud to his ears.

"What," was all he managed to say in response.

"That depot is giving the Germans full control over the battles being fought this side of the border," Lacoste said. " Which is to say, all of them. We have no proper plan thanks to our high command and no chance with the depot in German hands. Pushing the boches out will be impossible so long as they control the base."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Jaune asked. And that was just the first of the many questions from the giant pile inside his head. How would they get there? How many Germans would be guarding the base? Why them? How did any of this make sense?

"I'm glad you asked," Lacoste replied, a tired smile flashing on his face again. "I actually have someone here who can help you with this."

The flaps of the tent moved behind Jaune, and he could hear someone stepping inside. A woman in full military uniform walked past him to stand next to Lacoste, carrying a machine gun on her shoulder. What caught Jaune's attention, however, was the color of the uniform, khaki instead of blue, as well as the beret the woman was wearing.

"Coco Adel, British Expeditionary Force," she spoke in French with a heavy accent, her voice oozing confidence. "I hear you have some Krauts that need killing?"

* * *

 **There we go, the Mad Machine Gunner (TM) joins the fray. May God have mercy on those Germans.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Whew, back at it again. This one took longer than the other ones, mostly because Valkyria Chronicles 4 came out last week. My life has also been really hectic lately, but I'll see if I can continue with the usual speed.**

 **And as always, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed!**

* * *

" _There is a romantic, often misguided, misconception among the British that life in France is akin to life in paradise._ " -Janine di Giovanni

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 13**

* * *

"Okay, so run this by me one more time," Sky sat down in front of the campfire, taking a sip from his canteen. "The German attack completely annihilated our forward defenses."

"Yep," Dove replied, not lifting his gaze from the book he was reading.

"And because of how amazingly good we are at running away like little bitches, our guys took less of a beating than the others, most of whom are now less than half strength."

"Yep."

"Despite this, most of the others are still trying to hold the boches, while the rest build a new defense line."

"Yep."

"But instead of holding the line, we are being sent to take out a critical and very likely heavily fortified supply base to give the other guys a fighting chance."

"Yep."

"We are all going to die, aren't we?"

"Yep."

"What's up, bitches?" a loud, heavily accented voice interrupted their one-sided conversation.

"And somehow the Brits are here as well," Sky grumbled. "This shit makes no sense at all."

"Yep."

"You're not even listening to me, are you?" Sky glared at his squadmate.

"Nope."

"Oi, don't you know it's rude to ignore a lady?" the beret-wearing she-devil sat down next to them. She put her huge machine gun down in front of her, holding it between her knees so that its barrel was pointing upwards. For some reason, she was still wearing sunglasses, despite it being seven at night.

"The LT is more of a lady than you are," Sky grouched, receiving a smack on the back of his head from the irate Brit in response.

"Rude," the aforementioned Brit glared from behind her sunglasses. "I can forgive a slip once, next time it'll be your balls."

"Understood ma'am," Sky whined, holding his head.

"And don't you forget it." Coco reached inside her coat, digging up a small silver flask and taking a long swig.

Sergeant major Coco Adel of the British Army, sent to France as a part of the British Expeditionary Force, was the commander of the "islander section" accompanying platoons three and seven on their borderline suicidal mission. Despite her rank, she'd shown herself to be far more lenient when it came to regulations than lieutenant Arc, especially when it came to drinking. This lax attitude was one of the reasons she was so popular with her troops, something that was slowly turning out to be true amongst the French platoons as well. One of the sevens had actually tried asking her out, either unaware or having forgotten who the boisterous woman actually was.

The guy was lucky his ego was the only thing trampled to the ground that day.

"Watch it Brit, physically abusing these guys is my job," a new voice butted in on the conversation. Sky and Coco turned to see the large form of Cardin Winchester making its way towards them, accompanied by their platoon's mellow-natured medic.

"Corporal Winchester, you really shouldn't be walking yet," Velvet pleaded, eyeing their surroundings nervously. "Please get back inside, or you'll get us both in trouble."

"Get your hands off me, rabbit," Cardin growled. "Go back ripping stitches or whatever it is you do. A little headache is not going to keep me down."

"You have a concussion, please don't make it worse." Velvet tried grabbing Cardin's arm, flinching back as the man angrily pulled himself free.

Platoons three and seven had suffered far fewer casualties than the rest of the company, and through either incredible luck or divine intervention, most of those casualties had survived their wounds. Not many of them would be fighting any time soon, but it was reassuring to know most of the holes in their lines could be filled up in time. Considering the relatively bad situation, the section's morale was surprisingly good.

"C'mon bunny, don't be like that," Coco motioned for them to sit down. "The bastard's obviously well enough if he can walk on his own without collapsing. I'm sure he's had worse."

"I'm not sure we're on the same page on what "well enough" means," Velvet muttered as Cardin sat down next to Sky. With a quiet sigh, she followed suit.

"So, how is everybody?" Sky awkwardly asked after a minute of silence.

"Better than expected, all things considered," Velvet sighed. "Most of the wounded will make a full recovery in time. Those with grievous injuries have already been sent to proper hospitals. Private Thrush should be cleared to leave within a week."

"That's nice and all, but I think he meant everybody as in us," Coco cut in, chuckling as Velvet shut up and muttered her apologies. "Bored out of my mind, but can't complain. Can't say the same for my boys, though." Just as she said that a group of British soldiers staggered past the campfire, looking ready to collapse. A wicked grin appeared in her face. "Had them drag all of our equipment here on foot. Can't let them grow complacent, you know?"

The rest of the group shuddered, well aware of the machine gunner's reputation as an unforgiving taskmaster. Even Cardin winced.

"Still, good to know we won't have to start digging mass graves yet," Sky said. "I saw some guys from the fifth earlier today. Never seen a more miserable bunch in my life. Poor bastards looked like their families had just been murdered in front of them."

"Might not be that far away from the truth, actually," Dove said, staring into the flames. "Most of these platoons are made up of volunteers. If two brothers decide to enlist together, odds are they want to serve in the same unit. Even if that's not the case, those guys had been together since boot camp."

"Jesus," Sky shook his head.

"Weird to think we're actually the lucky ones," Cardin grunted. "Had we left a minute later in the last fight, we'd currently all be six feet under."

"Still hard to believe the LT actually did something himself," Sky grumbled. "Didn't think he had it in him."

"Little more than a glorified messenger," Cardin added. "He didn't actually fight."

"Still put himself in the line of fire," Dove cut in, his attention once more in his book. "And I think he actually did shoot one German."

"One whole boche? Whoop de _fucking_ doo." Cardin's voice was thick with sarcasm. "But I suppose it's better than nothing. Miles better than our benevolent overlords in the command bunkers, at least."

"What are you on about? Those guys already have thousands of kills under their belts," Sky snorted. "If you count our own guys, that is."

"S-Should you be talking about our leaders like that?" Velvet's head rapidly turned from one side to the other, scanning their surroundings with an almost panicked expression.

"Probably not," Sky took another sip from his canteen. "Still doesn't mean we won't. And it's not like there's anyone here who cares."

"Except, ummm…" Velvet's quietly nodded towards Coco, who was silently following the conversation with the most shark-like grin imaginable plastered in her face.

"Don't mind me," she said with a smile full of teeth. "I promise your generals won't hear a thing from me."

"See? Nobody gives a shit," Sky continued. "Besides, it's not like soldiers are supposed to like their commanders. The LT is probably boozing it up with his officer buddies and laughing at us this very moment. It goes both ways."

"Damn straight," Coco said with a sinister smile, digging up a bottle from somewhere. "Now, any of you ever played _Nuts on the Table?_ "

* * *

Jaune's forehead met the uneven surface of the empty ammo container with an echoing thump. The red marks over his eyebrows made it clear this was not the first time said thing had happened, and it was miraculous the container had held for so long without breaking. With a sound that was something between a groan of pain and whine of distress, he lifted his head to address the person in front of him.

"We've been delayed? _Again?_ "

"That's what I said," Neptune replied. "Lacoste wants the rest of the company to move before we do. To give our casualties time to recover, and for the Brits to " _get used to things here_ ", as he put it."

"It's been a week already, don't tell me this'll be another one," he covered his face with his hands.

"You'll have to ask the captain, I'm just the middleman," Neptune crossed his arms. "But I think it might have something to do with our lovely sergeant major. Her drinking policies aren't exactly a secret."

" _Goddammit Coco_ ," Jaune groaned behind his hands.

"I do have some good news, though," Neptune added, suddenly sounding very cheerful.

"Really? I'll take anything at this point," Jaune hopefully peeked past his fingers.

"Definitely," Neptune smiled, dramatically spreading his arms wide. "The repair guys have finally got the FT-17 moving! Another week, and you have yourself a shiny, new command tank!"

Jaune's head slammed into the container once again.

* * *

Velvet was panicking.

The feelings of pressure and urgency were nothing new to her. Working in a hospital meant treating patients whose lives hinged on her actions more often than she'd have liked, and she had been a nervous wreck the first time a patient with life-threatening injury was delivered to her. It was something you got used to in time. She still felt the rush of adrenaline whenever she received a patient within an inch of their life, but she still remained calm and focused. Anything less would put their life in even more danger.

The man in front of her wasn't bleeding and was still fully conscious, which were both good. What wasn't good was the fact that the man was staring out into nothingness, eyes glazed and mouth open. His breathing was fast and uneven, and his whole body seemed to shake to the rhythm of the frantic gasps of air.

"Corporal Winchester, please," she weakly tried, not receiving any reaction from the man. "We need to get you inside, you're still recovering."

"Ruh… Rush… Russshel…?" the large man slurred, his voice shaky and breath reeking of alcohol.

"No, I'm Velvet, remember?" she desperately tried. "Private Scarlatina. Rabbit," she winced at her unofficial callsign. Cardin had been the one to come up with the name, for reasons she could fairly easily guess. Even if it had been an insult at first, it had quickly turned into a nickname used by most soldiers of the platoon. It still didn't mean she had to like it. Being compared to a vermin best known for its skittish nature wasn't exactly flattering.

"You… you is not Russhel…" Cardin's bloodshot eyes roamed over her, his voice full of disappointment.

"No, Russel is inside, resting," she replied, trying to come up with something that would get through the drunken man's hazy mind. "We could go say hi to him if you want."

"You's… You is… Shky?" Cardin's eyes brightened, and a wide smile spreading in his lips. "Shky!"

" _For the love of…_ " Velvet felt like slapping both herself and the corporal. " _If Lieutenant Arc finds them like this…_ " She shuddered at the image.

"Who… who you calling _Shky_ you fucking bastard?" another slurring voice called out.

"Shut yer…. yap, Lark, I is talking to Shky," Cardin growled, turning to glare at the man behind him.

"Who the fuck's Lark?" Sky's brows furrowed in confusion. He was sitting on top of the unconscious body of Dove, holding an empty bottle.

"I dunno… he sounds... he shounds like an asshole," Cardin replied after a moment of thinking. "I dun like him."

"Yeah, me neither," Sky nodded, trying to take a swig from the bottle. When nothing came out, he shrugged and threw it over his shoulder. A loud smack and cascade of British profanities could be heard from the background but went ignored by everyone.

"Corporal Winchester," Velvet tried again. "Cardin, we really should go. It'll be cold soon."

"I likes you, Shky," Cardin suddenly reached out for Velvet, who only barely managed to get out of the way of the clumsy bear hug. The slurring man fell on his side, seemingly unbothered by the fact. "You is always sho nice. Nut like that asshole Lark."

Sky threw up behind them.

"Cardin, please…" Velvet's voice was close to a whimper now, and her desperate face turned to the only other nearby person who wasn't completely shit-faced. A pair of sunglasses and an amused smile stared back at her. "Miss Adel?"

"Call me that again and I will hurt you," the beret-wearing woman glared, before the smile returned to her face. "Not really, nobody could hurt a cute little thing like you if they tried. I have no idea how you ended up in here, but man, am I glad you did." As she spoke she lightly kicked Cardin in his ribs, who simply continued his incoherent babbling as if nothing had happened. "Unlike most of the gentlemen here," her nose scrunched up like she had smelled something rotten.

"Could you help me move them inside? They'll freeze if we leave them here," Velvet asked, grabbing Cardin's left arm. The man's body was completely limp, and trying to lift it was like trying to lift a duffel bag full of rocks.

"Sure, since you asked so nicely," Coco replied, grabbing the human-duffel bag's other arm. "And I suppose it's kind of my fault they're like this to begin with."

"I can't believe you got them drunk on purpose," Velvet shook her head. "Aren't you supposed to be a role model for them? Lead by example?"

"Aww, bunny, you're too adorable for your own good," the other woman cooed. "And I am. Any man who can't handle his booze has no place on a battlefield. I'm simply conditioning them."

Velvet could do nothing but stare incredulously.

"Plus, this stuff is real good negotiation material," Coco continued. "How much do you think they're willing to do to keep some of the stuff they said and did tonight hidden?"

"But… that's blackmail," Velvet helplessly said, suddenly feeling very sorry for the three barely conscious men around the campfire. "And didn't you promise you wouldn't tell anyone?"

"No, I promised I wouldn't tell the generals," the shark-grin had returned to Coco's face. "But your lieutenant and platoon sergeant are still fair game. C'mon now, let's drag this bastard in before it starts to stink."

* * *

 **I have no idea where I found the inspiration for this chapter. As you've probably noticed this fic isn't exactly well planned, but it has been a lot of fun to write regardless. Especially that last scene!**


	14. Chapter 14

**How the heck did I finish this one so fast?**

 **I honestly have no idea. Just felt a sudden flash of inspiration and like that, this chapter was born.**

* * *

" _Just because something doesn't do what you planned it to do doesn't mean it's useless._ " -Thomas Edison

* * *

 **Beta:** ThiccBuddha

 **Chapter 14**

* * *

Jaune sighed and rubbed his eyes.

The motion had become something of a trademark for him, for all the wrong reasons. He should've been worried about the damn near suicidal mission he and the rest of the troops were being sent on. That or possibly the fact that the master sergeant of their supposed allies had done nothing but caused mischief ever since her arrival. Drinking while on duty was a strict no-go, and enforcing it was harder than ever now that one figure of authority not only allowed but even actively encouraged it. The morning roll call earlier today had been one of the most miserable sights in his entire life.

But rather than tackling the serious issues that could make or break their soon to be underway operation, and by extension their odds of survival, fate had given him something far more important to focus on.

"Isn't she beautiful?"

It didn't help Neptune kept pestering him about it every two minutes.

"Depends on what you define as beautiful," he managed to mumble, too focused on the hunk of metal in front of them. _His_ hunk of metal in front of them.

The FT-17 they'd received as a replacement for his destroyed command tank had finally been repaired and was now fully operational. Or rather, as operational as a Great War -era vehicle could be. The small tank that had once been little more than a rusted husk looked brand new, with a fixed hull, turret, as well as shiny new paint job. That was something both he and Neptune agreed on. It did look good. Outdated, but good.

Unfortunately, that was where the good news ended. The mechanic in charge of the repair team had given Jaune the vehicle's specifications, none of which made him want to ride the thing into battle. Its armor was thin, giving reliable protection against small arms fire and little else. The mechanic had assured it would hold out against machine guns as well but had been uncertain when he had asked about anti-tank rifles and AA-guns. Or even hand grenades. Any modern vehicle with decent firepower would annihilate the thing, likely in one hit as well.

And therein lied another problem. While the thin armor was regrettable, it could be worked around by not getting hit in the first place. Or by taking out the enemy before they could do the same to you. Unfortunately, the FT-17's antiquated cannon would be hard-pressed to cause any significant damage to anything packing even a slight amount of armor. Even with upgraded shells, the odds of penetrating a Panzer weren't good, and that was assuming you could get a shot out. The Panzer's cannon, however, would have little trouble going through the FT's paper-thin plating.

Looking past even that, a lightly armed and armored vehicle could still be useful command vehicle or self-propelled gun. Given the thing's somewhat outdated armament, however, the mobile command center seemed like the better choice out of the two. Sitting inside a bullet-proof metal box was marginally safer than kneeling in a trench or crawling through the mud. And there was the final, possibly biggest problem of them all.

The rustbucket's top speed was eight kilometers per hour. While on a smooth surface.

All of his soldiers could run faster than that.

So, while the thing was technically bulletproof, it lacked the firepower and mobility to make much use of the fact. Sitting inside it wouldn't be very safe either since if enemy infantry could shoot at it, their tanks wouldn't be far behind. Once it was spotted it would become a giant target for every anti-tank weapon in the enemy's disposal, considering they didn't have any other combat vehicles to draw their attention. Not even the Brits had brought any with them.

What in the actual hell was he supposed to do with it?

"What about the surplus guns? Good for use?" he changed the subject, turning to look at his second-in-command. The old rifles were little more than an emergency backup in case they ran out of proper weapons to use, but the submachine guns would be very useful. Even if they were old, inaccurate, and prone to malfunction, they were still superior to anything else they had available for close combat. Even one submachine gun per squad could make a huge difference, and there had been enough of them for two each. That was a respectable amount of firepower, even if the guns required more maintenance. And jammed occasionally.

"All ready and accounted for. The tech guys have really upped their game recently," Neptune replied. "Some of the seniors already figured out how to use the things. I asked Sartre to give the rest of them a quick course before we hold the actual training."

Jaune nodded in approval. "Good, thanks. With those guns in use, they're actually starting to resemble a proper military unit. Training, equipment, and experience." He grimaced as he spoke the last word. "This isn't looking quite as bad as it did in the beginning."

"Don't you see anything wrong with all this?" Neptune suddenly asked without even looking at him. The fond smile in his face had disappeared, replaced by a thin line and frown.

"In the current state of the war? Of course I do."

"No, not that. It doesn't take a tactical genius to see the situation isn't ideal. You're the smarter one of us, can you honestly say there's not something weird in the way we've been treated?" Neptune turned to him. "Unarmed conscripts with no weapons or training. Old, barely functional guns. And now this super-important mission. I'd also say the whole holding the line -fiasco, but it wasn't just us that got fucked. Tell me with a straight face nothing's going on."

"You're right," Jaune said, meeting his friend's gaze. "This isn't normal, not by any standards. At first, I thought it was punishment from the higher-ups." He didn't need to mention Eguisheim for Neptune to know what he was talking about. "It made sense in a twisted kind of way, you know? Don't waste proper soldiers and equipment on someone who's just going to waste them." He shook his head. "I actually believed it was just that. That soldiers of section 58 are just victims dragged into this war by my mistakes. It was simple, logical, easy to believe. And gave me a scapegoat to blame for all this."

Neptune said nothing, silently lighting a smoke.

"But now, there's way too much stuff that doesn't add up. Why send poorly trained troops and mothballed weapons to an incompetent officer instead of just relieving him of command?" He pointed at himself. "If they wanted to get rid of me, they could simply order me out and there'd be nothing I could do about it. Hell, they could probably court-marshal me if they really wanted to."

"So whoever's behind this wants you here," Neptune slowly said after blowing out a puff of smoke. "But for some inexplicable reason wants to actively sabotage you as well."

"I wouldn't go as far as to call it sabotage," Jaune continued. "But I think this is all too convenient to be coincidence, either. Someone is pulling the strings, but I'm not sure if they're trying to help or hinder us."

"If this is some convoluted attempt at making our lives easier, they're doing a pretty poor job," Neptune scoffed.

"I don't know," a sigh escaped Jaune's lips. "All of this is just me throwing ideas around. And that's not even considering our latest assignment. Sending what is on paper an underequipped section of conscripts into a critical mission that could very well dictate the course of the war is not a sound strategy. British allies or no."

"Didn't that order come from Lacoste? And not from all the way up?"

"Yes, which is another thing altogether," he admitted. "By giving that order he is presumably going against his own. We're supposed to be with the others in a vain attempt to form an impenetrable wall to flatten the German advance. Instead, we'll be infiltrating their lines together with the islanders to either capture or demolish a supply depot vital for both sides. Doesn't sound like something thought up or sanctioned by the high command."

"Yeah, that much was obvious." Neptune dropped his smoke and stomped on it. "So is that what this is? Lacoste realizing how our high leadership is incompetent and acting on his own?"

"That's what I think," Jaune nodded. "At least, that's what he implied when he gave this order. He might've picked us for this because he thinks we're trustworthy, and won't report this to the higher-ups."

"Hooray for the Army's complete lack of trust for its commanders, am I right?" Neptune rolled his eyes.

"Something like that."

"This is not what I expected when I enlisted."

"Well if there's ever a third war you now know not to believe the recruitment posters," Jaune chuckled.

"This has to count as false advertising," Neptune grumbled as he lit another smoke.

"You know that's bad for you," Jaune glanced at the smoking stick between his friend's lips. "And for your soul."

"I don't have one of those."

"Have you been reading those metaphysics textbooks again? God, such a nerd."

"Intellectual."

"Still a nerd."

"Anyway." Another cloud of smoke escaped Neptune's mouth. "The super-secret and critical mission that will likely either save or doom us for good. What's the plan?"

"You make it sound so simple," Jaune sighed. "I have some ideas, but nothing concrete yet. I'll also have to ask for Coco's opinion."

"Mark my words, that demon is more trouble than she's worth," Neptune grumbled. "You can only see so many hungover soldiers in the morning before you start questioning her aptitude for leadership."

"Be nice, we need their cooperation."

"Unfortunately."

"Be. Nice."

"Okay, okay, I get it." Neptune stomped on the second cigarette as well.

"Good. Just keep a stiff upper lip and think of your beloved here," Jaune motioned at the FT. "She doesn't drink at least, no matter how hard the Brits might tempt her."

"I honestly wouldn't be surprised if they found a way," Neptune reached for a third smoke, stopping when his hand found nothing but an empty box.

"Yeah, I guess I'll have to talk to her about that," Jaune's hand met his face once again. "But on the bright side, we now have an actual combat vehicle. It's good for looks and morale if nothing else." He let his hand drop, glancing at Neptune. "She's all yours, by the way."

Neptune slowly turned to face him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"All yours, buddy," Jaune repeated. "I'm not getting inside that thing. One of the techs has been assigned as the driver, you give the orders and shoot."

"I… I don't know what to say," Neptune looked like he was close to tearing up.

"No need to thank me, just get that thing out of my hands," Jaune turned away from the tank. "And get a radio in there as well, it didn't come with one installed."

"Ohh, a radio is not the only upgrade she'll be getting."

"No Neptune, you can't attach a flag or sponsons to it."

"You're no fun…"

Jaune repeated his new trademark gesture. "Just get it to the camp and keep it in working order. We sure as hell won't get a third vehicle if this one breaks down."

"Yeah yeah, sure, I'll go get the driver guy," Neptune patted the tank's smooth surface. "One question, though."

Jaune lifted his gaze. "What is it?"

"Can I paint her blue?"

Jaune covered his face in exasperation.

* * *

 **Kind of a filler chapter, but at least there's something plot-related in there as well. The next one should have more insteresting stuff.**


End file.
